Aima Elohim
by esstiel
Summary: They might not have been sent to Purgatory by 'normal' means, but there's only one way for them to get out-climb Mount Purgatory, battle their demons, atone for their sins upon its seven terraces, and find whatever's at the peak that Castiel says will get them home. Eventual Destiel. WIP. Angst, angst, more angst, ALL THE ANGST.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Aima Elohim

**Part:** 1/?

**Pairing:** Destiel

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Graphic depictions of gore, (eventual) sex. Laden with angst.

**Summary:**They might not have been sent to Purgatory by 'normal' means, but there's only one way for them to get out-climb Mount Purgatory, battle their demons, atone for their sins upon its seven terraces, and find whatever's at the peak that Castiel says will get them home. Their path is slick with blood and tears, though what they find at the peak of the Mount isn't quite what they expected.

**Notes:** So this is a fanfic collab between me and my friend daisychainofoddities. This is the first part, running approx. 9300 words. I wasn't going to post this until we had the entire thing done, but I figure getting some feedback and interest in the fic will make sticking this out until the end easier on both of us, haha. It's really emotional to write and takes a lot, so.

I'm not going to distinguish between my parts and hers, just because. :3c HAVE FUN.

Also, reviews and crits are more than welcome! We want as much feedback as possible for this huge-as-fuck endeavor we're undertaking.

* * *

Glowing red eyes follow his every move, growls and snarls echoing in the fog.

Dean turns in a circle, head whipping around to look for an escape path, a place to hide, something to duck behind, _anything, _but there isn't a damn thing, and his stomach twists, throat tightening as fear threatens to paralyze him.

"Cas?" he whispers, voice cracking. He hopes and prays to whoever is up in Heaven listening—knowing his luck it's someone who hates him, and who _doesn't_ hate him in Heaven nowadays?—that Cas didn't abandon him, that he was just doing some recon or looking for a way out or _anything_ besides leaving him to die what would most definitely be a bloody and gory death. He wishes he could trust that Cas is coming back, but he can't, not after everything that'd happened in the last year. Not after Cas betrayed his trust so completely. Dean wants to trust that Cas is coming back, but he doesn't think his heart can handle being shattered like that again. A million agonizing deaths would be better than feeling like his soul was ripped out of his chest.

But he's not dumb enough to voice _that_ thought aloud—he's not about to give these monsters any ideas.

The darkness shifts in front of him and Dean takes one step back, two. Something begins to show itself, emerging from the treeline like shadow come to life. It shifts and undulates, rising up, up, _up_. Dean follows its metamorphosis with his eyes, heart pounding, blood racing in his ears. A head forms, limbs separating from the darkness. The light—is it from a moon? Dean doesn't dare look away from the monster to see—bounces off of rows upon rows of sharp teeth, the sickly color of gangrene. A tongue lolls, long and narrow, bright red eyes narrowing.

A shiver runs up Dean's spine when the thing _smiles_. But then the damn thing talks and it's all Dean can to do keep himself at least outwardly composed, though he can't stop the tremors in his hands, the sweat beading on his forehead, rolling down the back of his neck.

"I know you." That long tongue licks at a row of teeth, saliva dripping. "Dean Winchester."

Son of a _bitch_.

He doesn't take the time to think (there _isn't_ any time to think),-he just picks a random direction and starts running.

Laughter follows him, a twisted noise like stones grinding together. Bile rises in his throat but he swallows it down, adrenaline sending him through the trees at breakneck speed. The things are following him, crashing through the underbrush, laughing and howling. It isn't long before Dean's realizing the monsters aren't making any effort to catch him; they follow him at his pace, just far back enough that, if he was a moron, he would think he actually had a chance to get away.

The bastards are toying with him, like cats with a mouse.

But Dean doesn't have the time to be properly pissed off, because all of a sudden he's running face first into something solid, something that definitely wasn't there a second ago, and all he can think is _fuck fuck fuck they're gonna get me_ and he can hear the clicking and gnashing of their teeth, like they're right behind him, up against his ear. He tries to push off whatever it is he ran into but he can't because something's grabbing him, wrapping around his shoulders and squeezing; he thrashes, fighting to get away, because he's Dean fucking Winchester and he's not about to go down like a bitch.

It takes Dean a few panic-ridden seconds to realize what he's hearing isn't chattering teeth and skin-crawling laughter, but his name, repeated over and over in his ear like a mantra. He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and blinks, taking in the cheap tan fabric pressed into his nose. The arms around him slack when he stops fighting, giving him just enough room to pull back.

Deep blue eyes meet his green and Dean finally lets himself relax, shoulders slumping as he sighs with relief. "Knew you wouldn't leave me high and dry," he mutters, more to convince himself than anything. The faint smile that curls the corners of his lips is forced, fades quickly.

Cas tilts his head in that weird way of his, like a confused puppy, a familiar gesture that Dean doesn't realize he misses until he sees it again. For some reason it makes Dean want to pat Cas on the head—must be the post-adrenaline crash messing with his brain; he flexes his fingers, dispelling the itch to touch the angel.

"Why would I do that?" Cas asks, brows furrowing. Damn, he looks genuinely hurt that Dean would even think that he'd abandon him.

Dean shrugs uncomfortably, rubbing his neck as he backs away from the angel with a mental reminder to himself that personal space is, in fact, a thing.

"I dunno, just freaked me out when you disappeared on me without saying anything," he says, pulling a face and breaking eye contact. Sometimes Cas's intense stares are just too much for him, even more so now that he has to get used to them again. Cas thankfully doesn't reply, so Dean takes the time to assess their surroundings.

Its definitely not what he was expecting to see.

One, they're on a seashore. Two, its light out though the sun's hidden behind a mountain, and three, they're surrounded by people, people covered in soot and ash, men, women, children, the elderly. Just... throngs of people milling about, either staring out at the ocean waves crashing against the rocky shore or staring up at the mountain that juts from otherwise flat land. A few glance at them in passing but not longer than a second or two before moving on, drifting listlessly through the crowds. The air is thick with humidity, and his skin is already damp with sweat and condensation, making his jeans and shirt cling to him uncomfortably.

Dean turns to ask Cas where they are, why they're there, if it was gonna get them back home, but stops himself. It looks like Cas is trying to hide behind him, shoulders hunched, eyes darting back and forth furtively. Dean frowns, turns and takes a quick survey of the area to check for an immediate threat. "Dude, what's wrong?" His voice is pitched low—Cas's anxiety is already starting to affect him.

Cas fidgets, playing with the sash of his trench coat, picking at a loose string with his long, nimble fingers. "It's nothing," he says quietly, looking anywhere and everywhere but at Dean.

Dean scowls and crosses his arms. There's no way in hell he's going to deal with any lies or evasion, not when their predicament is so dire. "Bullshit."

Cas refuses to meet his gaze, shifts his weight from foot to foot. Dean knows he's gonna crack—he knows the small amount of trust still between them is too fragile to keep secrets, especially now—it's just a matter of waiting. At least he thinks he knows. The list of things he really knows about what Cas will and will not do is a helluva lot shorter than he'd thought.

He's proven right about this though when Cas sighs and finally makes eye contact, shoulders pulled up like he's a turtle trying to disappear into the safety of his shell. "They might recognize me," he says, whispering quickly before pursing his lips and looking to see if anyone is close enough to overhear.

'They might recognize-' "They're _souls_?" Dean whispers back incredulously.

Cas answers with a curt 'yes' and Dean turns back to look at the people—_souls_, he amends—staring at them openly. A few moments pass in silence with Cas oozing apprehension behind Dean as he looks for any sign that the souls are going to turn hostile and come after them, any indication that they even give a rats ass about the two of them. But the souls just wander around, looking lost and confused and apathetic, and Dean looks over his shoulder at Cas. "I don't think they give a damn about either of us."

The angel relaxes his shoulders a little though his eyes continue to wander. "I suppose," he concedes after further survey of the milling mass of souls.

Dean nods, satisfied that Cas... well, he's still freaking out, but not nearly as much, which is good enough for him. Last thing he needs is Cas going batshit crazy again. If he so much as says one word about bees...

"So where exactly are we?" he asks, gesturing vaguely with his hands towards their surroundings.

"Ante-purgatory."

"Then... Where the hell were we before?"

Cas frowns and looks out towards the sea, stares at the horizon. "We were on the other side of the ocean," he says slowly, pursing his lips like he's still trying to figure it out himself. "This is where souls attempt the ascension to heaven—we were where monsters go when they die." His brows furrow and he adds, "I wasn't aware they were two different places," sounding annoyed that he missed out on this bit of information.

Dean nods. That makes perfect sense, sort of. A little. "Why didn't we end up here when Dick did his asshole magic mojo thing?"

Cas glances at him. "Because Leviathan are monsters; Dick would not have known how to get here." He quirks a brow, almost a perfect mimic of an expression Dean's used in the past. "And bringing us here instead of leaving us to die would have been quite contradictory to his name, I think."

Did Cas just tell a joke? Dean wants to congratulate him for managing to tell one that's actually funny (and in English!), but a question pops into his head and he can't help but ask. "If a Leviathan couldn't find this place, how did you?"

Cas's eyes lose focus and he turns to stare blankly towards the mountain. Suddenly the sun peeks over the mountaintop, bathing Cas in light. It makes his skin look like it's glowing, like its radioactive, sunbeams glinting off the sweat beading on his forehead. It outlines his hair, makes his already too-blue eyes look ethereal in a way that makes Dean's breath catch in his throat. Only in the safety of his mind can Dean admit that Cas looks absolutely breathtaking in that moment, like the holy angel of the Lord he once was, like the celestial being he was before the Apocalypse, before knowing the Winchesters.

But then the moment passes and Cas turns back to face him, the illusion of overwhelming angelic presence disappearing to reveal what's left of the Castiel Dean knew, the Castiel that he'd...

He's talking, Dean realizes, and it takes him a second to even remember what he'd even asked him. "What?" His throat is thick with some emotion he can't—refuses-to name.

Cas glanced at the mountaintop again. "I said I felt... something pull me here. Something in the Garden led me to this place." Dean's face must've given away his next question. "The Garden of Eden, Dean."

"The..." Dean stares at him incredulously. "Why the hell is the Garden of Eden in _purgatory_?"

"It just is, Dean. And it's our only way out."

"Well how do we get there?"

Cas's smile is rueful and he turns away, walking through the milling souls towards a small fissure in the mountainside. "We climb the terraces of Purgatory."

Dean wishes that didn't sound like a fate worse than death.

* * *

It's absurd, Dean thinks, just how defenseless he feels walking through the eerie dawn-washed landscape of ante-Purgatory. There's a stagnant tension here, like the lip-biting, sweaty-handed feeling right before you leap off a cliff or before you open a suspicious letter. Or before you swallow back the lump in your throat called pride and admit to the open air that the sensations twisting in your belly might not be simple indigestion; it might be something closer to love. But he doesn't call it by its name. There are a thousand more pressing matters to attend to before he even begins to address that nameless twitch of his soul.

And after all, he's not certain he can even fully rely on the tousled-headed figure walking a few paces ahead of him. Dean can't seem to banish that aching reminder of Castiel's transgressions; he can't mute the clanging bell in his head that warns him to _trust no one, and especially not Cas_. Even if Dean is able to eventually forgive him for all he's done (which Dean believes may not be in the cards for a very, very long time—and he hardly expects to survive that long anyway), he can't be sure that Cas is much of an ally at this point. The fallen angel is broken, splintered into bits by guilt and regret and shame and whatever else Lucifer had carved into his daft little head. Dean watches Castiel's every footfall with dread, expecting the trench-coated shape to sink to the ground and go comatose at any moment. Dean sighs quietly, and if Cas hears it, he doesn't make it apparent.

They're walking in near-silence, which is for the best, since they have no idea what could be listening for them, possibly hunting them, at this exact moment. Dean doesn't even know if Cas has a determinate destination in mind, or if he's simply following some kind of ineffable angelic instinct. Maybe he's just bluffing, too proud or too ashamed to admit that he's just as lost and out of his element as Dean. But then, he has to have _some_ idea of where they're going, some inkling of how to get out of here.

At least, that's what Dean is telling himself.

Realistically, there's no reason Dean should be following Cas anywhere. For all Dean knows, they could be walking off a cliff in a matter of seconds. But there's nothing else to cling to, no other lifeboat within sight, and so Dean resigns himself to this grim fate. Still, he can't help but voice the nagging questions surging through his mind.

"Cas," he whispers, glancing around to make sure nothing is coming for them, "where are we going? What's the plan? Are we looking for something in particular or…?"

There's a pause before the angel responds, and Dean can make out the muscles working in Castiel's shoulders. "Dude, come on. Give me something to work with here," Dean hisses. Cas stops suddenly and swivels around to face Dean, who very nearly walks face-first into him.

The angel's eyes flicker warningly as he replies, "We are going to the Gate. Keep your voice down."

Dean gulps. Cas's face is a mere inch or two from his own, and he notices for the first time the faint lines spiking out from the corners of the angel's eyes, the dusky purple half-moons beneath them, and the faint sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. It strikes Dean all at once that Cas isn't simply weakened by angelic standards—he's fragile even for a human. The clammy heat radiating from Castiel's forehead is enough to worry Dean deeply, because this is the very last place he would like to be stuck nursing a hapless man-baby for God knows how long. "You feelin' okay?" Dean asks, feeling immediately the futility of his question; of course he isn't okay. Neither of them are okay.

But Cas doesn't shoot off some sarcastic reply like Dean expects him to, he just nods and flicks his eyes away. "I'm fine, Dean."

It's an unconvincing response, but he turns away and starts walking at a brisker pace, so Dean has no choice but to accept it and follow. "What gate are we talking about?" Dean presses, his voice barely audible.

"The Gate to Purgatory-proper."

Dean squints at the back of Cas's head in confusion. "What? I thought we were already _in _Purgatory."

"We are. But not all the way."

"So, what, this is like the lobby?"

"It's not a motel, Dean."

Dean can't exactly argue with that. There's a painful lack of pay-per-view porn here. "Why are we trying to get all the way into Purgatory, then? I thought the point was just to get out altogether?"

"Yes. And the only way out is up and through."

"Fantastic," Dean groans. "I guess going up beats going down, though."

"This isn't the time for innuendo, Dean."

In spite of himself, in spite of everything, Dean can't help but laugh. It's an awkward, unnatural sort of sound, clawing from his throat without warning. It sounds even more bizarre juxtaposed with the desolation of their surroundings and Dean wishes he could suck it back in, swallow it down, and keep it locked away. "I didn't even mean it like that, but it's good to see you're learning."

"There."

The angel comes to a standstill, gazing up at what seems to be a sheer stone wall a few hundred feet beyond them, his face unreadable. The blue eyes are squinting, lips pulled into a little pink knot. Dean folds his arms beside Cas and stares questioningly at him.

"What? What are we looking at?"

"The Gate," Cas replies simply.

"Where? That?" Dean verifies, perplexed. "Cas, I'm not seeing anything."

Cas nods dismissively and murmurs, "We'll have to be convincing."

"Okay, enough with the cryptic bullshit. What the fuck are we doing?" Dean demands.

"Follow my lead. Don't say a word."

Dean's mouth hangs open in disbelief as he watches the angel calmly walk away toward the cliff wall. "Who made you Batman?" he grumbles, before jogging to catch up.

As they approach the wall, Dean finds himself inexplicably unable to keep his eyes all the way open. It's as though the sun is sparking in his vision, but he can't actually see any light source. In fact, he doesn't see anything but the rock wall, a blurred texture of grey behind the tears in his eyes. No, he concludes, it's not a light he can see—but there's the distinct sensation of being blinded. It doesn't make sense, but then, he supposes that should really be the norm for him by now.

"Avert your eyes," Cas whispers over his shoulder. "The Gatekeeper is low in the ranks of Heaven, but he is still an angel."

"Gatekeeper? You mean there's a dude up there somewhere?" Dean mumbles, struggling to walk in a straight line with his vision almost totally wiped.

"A servant of the Lord."

"Right, that. Whatever. Why can't I see him?"

"An angel's true form is overwhelming for you," Cas explains, exasperated and perhaps a little disappointed.

"So he's just gonna let us through?"

"It's unlikely."

"Well, that's encouraging."

"Just let me speak to him."

"What are you gonna say? Cas, what happens if he says no?"

"He may strike us down."

"Oh, good."

"And even if he lets us pass, the Gate could close on us before we are through."

"_What_? Dude, the odds are not in our favor here."

"They never are," Cas responds softly, a sigh heaving through his thin frame. The burning in Dean's retinas is nearly unbearable now, and he can't help but cry out when the invisible light suddenly flares, almost as though in anger. Dean crumples to his knees and instinctively wraps his arms over his head, like it was a tornado swirling toward him and not a stinging flood of celestial light.

"Shh," Cas hushes, and Dean can feel the ripple of displaced air as the angel moves to stand in front of him, successfully managing to minimize the burning light by a fraction. "Be silent." Dean feels the weight of the Gatekeeper's blaze like a yoke around his neck, like screws in his head, and he knows he couldn't possibly speak even if he wanted to. Through the ringing in his ears, he can barely tune into the garbled words Cas is speaking.

"Hello, Brother."

The echoing, bell-toned voice that responds sends a feverish ache down Dean's sinuses.

"Castiel. It is an honor."

"Thank you."

Dean's face scrunches in surprise, pressed against the dry ground. The Gatekeeper sounds almost reverent of Cas, a cadet addressing his general.

"It has been eons since we last had words, Brother."

"Yes. I have been preoccupied," Cas replies coolly.

"Raising the Righteous Man is a monumental task," boomed the Gatekeeper. "What brings you here, Castiel?"

Dean swallows nervously, waiting to hear Cas's excuse for being in Purgatory.

"God has blessed me with another task," Cas declares. _Where are you going with this, Cas? _Dean wonders fearfully. But the angel continues without hesitation. "I have been sent to ascend the levels of Purgatory, as guide to this human." Dean can't see anything beyond the ragged shadow of Castiel's tennis shoes in front of his face, but he can feel the angel gesture back toward him. There's a tense lapse in conversation, and Dean wishes desperately he could look up and see the Gatekeeper's face, try to gauge how Cas is faring, but he can't. So he waits.

Finally, the ringing voice utters, "This human. Is this the Righteous Man?"

Dean can almost feel the inner struggle surging in Cas's head.

"No." _What_? Dean thinks, panicked. "This is simply a wayward soul our Father wishes to make an example of, that he may return to Earth and warn humanity of the consequences of sin."

There's a little prickle of pride in Dean's heart. He's successfully taught an angel how to lie to his own brother. He should feel ashamed, but he really doesn't.

"And his soul?" the voice echoes. "Is it pure?"

"The purest."

"Then he shall pass without peril. Rise, mortal."

Dean felt his limbs bending not of their own accord, his body elevating to stand upright. His eyes are still tightly shut and watering from filtered light, but he takes a shaky step forward, and then he feels the vaguely reassuring pressure of Castiel's fingers around his arm. They struggle toward the fiery sun of the Gate, Dean whimpering helplessly as he raises a hand to try and block it out. He can feel the wall now, stony against the tips of his shoes, utterly resistant. _There is no door here, no hole to climb through_, Dean laments. His stomach churns. The Gate has rejected him already, and he flinches in anticipation of being stricken down.

"Thank you, Brother," comes Castiel's voice, distant and mottled though he is only inches from Dean's ears.

"Good luck. Be well." The Gatekeeper's words pulse and buzz in Dean's head, and he wails in agony, feeling as though he'll splinter to pieces any second now.

There is the bruising knock of Dean's knees against the rock wall as Cas drags him forward, and then a lick of white-hot light blossoms violently before Dean's eyes. He's suddenly aware of a searing pain in his forehead, as though he's being branded, and then a deafening scrape of something like metal against stone. "Don't look back, Dean. Keep your eyes closed. Don't look back," Cas is muttering, over and over, his voice more of a vibrating hum than anything else, and Dean can feel the angel's mouth at his ear. "Don't look back. We're passing through."

A powerful curl of electric pain shoots through Dean's limbs and he can feel his lungs punch out a broken scream, even as his ears fill with the pulse of his own heartbeat and his voice is silenced. Then comes the faint pressure of an arm around his waist, holding him up as the fallen angel and the broken man pass through the Gate, into the primary level of Limbo.

"_Te deum_."

* * *

Dean can taste copper on his tongue, the thick wetness of blood trickling from a corner of his mouth as his body shakes with tremors, the aftermath of passing through the Gate. A memory floats up from the slush that's left of his brain, of Bobby hunched over a worn and tattered book, '_The only thing this damn book's tellin' me is there's seven 'levels' in Purgatory, but it doesn't say _how_ to get there.' _The memory is bittersweet, but he hangs onto it for its comfort, for the way it rings with the feeling of home and safety.

Sharp stone grinds into his shoulder, scraping his knees when his legs buckle, bringing him back to the present. _Shit. _He doesn't think he can survive another gate, if they're all gonna be that bad. Especially not seven of them. He swallows around the blood in his mouth, his throat sore from screaming.

Cas's arm around his waist holds him up like he's light as a feather; Dean's arm is slung over the angel's shoulder, his fingers wrapped around his wrist in an iron grip. Dean tries not to lean into Cas but his body refuses to cooperate, legs going every which way no matter how hard he tries to control them. He doesn't know where Cas finds the strength to carry him, where he finds the determination and willpower to continue on, never stumbling, carrying Dean up, up, up, as the rocky path beneath continues ever higher.

Tears continue to stream down his cheeks, colors dancing across the backs of his eyelids as his eyes try to adjust to the lack of burning, soul-searing angelic light. Hesitantly he lets his eyelids open a crack, squints as the world slowly comes into focus.

The path before them is narrow, leaving just enough room for the two of them to squeeze through shoulder-to-shoulder—its no more than a crack in the mountainside, the rocky walls recede and protrude at random. But Cas weaves to and fro, guiding Dean away from the worst of the sharp rocks, pulling him close when the path narrows even further.

More of Dean's muscle and motor control returns the further they stumble from the gate, and he wills his legs to pick up some of the slack, wills his feet to take one step, two—partly because he doesn't want to weigh Cas down with his humanity and frailty, partly because he just can't trust that Cas won't decide to drop him, leave him behind.

Dean grits his teeth and blinks furiously, trying to make his eyes focus, and he attempts to put more of his weight on his own legs, to take some of the burden off of the angel. They're not having it though and his knees give out, violently pitching him forward. But Cas is there to catch him, murmuring "I have you Dean, I won't let go, I have you," like a prayer, his grip sure, never faltering.

Dean's suddenly hit with the feeling of deja vu, like Cas has said those exact words to him before; something in his chest spasms, his throat tightening with unnamed emotions.

They walk like that for what seems like eternity before Cas stops, carefully lowering Dean to the ground. "It's safe to rest here," he says, his usually deep voice hoarse and weak.

Dean lets himself be set on the ground, his body splaying out as he leans back against a boulder. Cas settles beside him, coat scraping against the rocks noisily. They sit in silence save for their labored breathing, and once Dean thinks he has the strength, he turns his head to check on Cas, wincing as his neck protests the movement.

He may be an angel, but he's a _fallen_ angel, with a vessel that's showing some serious wear and tear, and it's more obvious than ever. Cas's face is pale and waxy, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat. His usually wild, wind-blown hair is plastered to his skull, stringy and matted like he's been living on the streets for weeks. Dried blood—Dean's blood—cakes the side of his neck, stains the collar of his dingy hospital scrubs, his coat. Cas's deep blue eyes stare blankly at the rock wall in front of them, chapped lips parted as he breathes slowly.

"Cas..." Dean lifts his arm slowly, reaches towards Cas as if to brush his hair from his forehead, but lets his hand fall into his lap.

"I'm fine, Dean." Cas whispers the words, licks at his lips.

"You sure as hell don't look like it."

"I... will endure."

Dean sits up with a jerk, ignores the way his muscles _scream_ at him for moving so suddenly. "You're gonna do a helluva lot more than 'endure'," he growls, the word 'endure' curdling on his tongue, twisting his mouth.

Cas's eyes flicker towards him, though don't actually focus on him. "I will do what I must to get you home," he amends, shrugging one shoulder in a gesture that's painfully human, painfully resigned.

It's like the bottom of Dean's stomach drops out when he hears those words, like someone's stuffed a black hole in his chest and it's swallowing him whole. His hand shoots out to grab Cas's chin, ignoring the way it twists his battered body, turns his head to face him. Cas's eyes look down, though, and Dean tightens his hold on his chin. "Look at me, damn it," he whispers hoarsely, waiting until Cas does so slowly, hesitantly. But their eyes do meet eventually, and the power of that gaze makes him freeze, words caught in his throat. But he forces them out because they need to be said, because he will not let Cas do what he fears he's going to do.

"You're getting out of here with me, you understand? I fucking _refuse_ to leave without you."

The angel says nothing, simply stares at him with wide eyes, lips parted as if to speak though he doesn't make a sound.

Dean's hand slides from Cas's chin to cup his cheek; his worry increases as he feels just how feverish and clammy he really is, like he's caught a bad case of the flu. "Promise me, Cas. Promise you won't leave." Because, damn it all, he knows he can't handle it if he leaves again, knows he won't last long topside without his angel with him, in whatever capacity he can have him.

Cas takes a deep breath then releases it in a long, shuddering sigh. But he isn't saying the words, isn't making the promise Dean so desperately needs to hear, and God but that makes Dean's insides roil, his blood run cold. Cas won't even give him this assurance, won't just make the goddamn promise-

"I promise you, Dean. So long as you want me, I will be here."

"Damn right you will," Dean replies with false bravado, pulling away to lean back, looking up at the pale blue cloudless sky. He ignores the lump in his throat, the moisture in his eyes, and hopes Cas will be smart enough to do the same. He tells himself there isn't time for chick flick moments in Purgatory and dedicates himself to actually resting his body while they have the chance.

Dean squirms a little until he's comfortable and lets his eyes drift closed.

They sit in comfortable silence, until-

"So, who was the dude guarding the Gate?"

"He is not a 'dude', Dean."

"Fine, whatever. Who's the angel? He got a name?"

Dean can _feel_ Cas staring at him. "Paeoc."

"_Paeoc?" _What the hell kind of name was that? "I bet he got his ass beat as a kid, with a name like that."

"_Dean._"

"Alright, alright."

More silence.

"So, this Paeoc guy..."

Cas sighs, exasperated, and Dean grins to himself. "Yes?"

"Sounded like he has a little crush on you."

"Dean, angels do not have 'crushes'."

"Uh _huh_."

Cas sighs again. Dean cracks open an eye, takes a peek at Cas's face, because he can't quite tell whether or not Cas is actually annoyed or just pretending to be. But the angel is smiling so Dean chuckles and closes his eye, letting himself lean against Cas's shoulder slightly.

He must have drifted off because he's being woken up by Cas's gentle hand on his shoulder. His eyelids flutter open and he stares up at the sky, trying to gauge how much time has passed. It's close to sunset, the sky painted in purples and pinks, the shadows cast by the sun elongated.

With a quiet sigh Dean sits up, stretching his arms over his head reflexively. When he realizes he doesn't feel any pain, he takes quick inventory of his body. All of his aches are gone, cuts and scrapes healed—even the bone-deep weariness he's come to expect has been washed away. He feels rejuvenated, feels good in a way he hasn't felt in, well, years. A smile blooms on Dean's face—a real, honest to God smile—and he stands up, offering a hand to Cas, pulling him up to stand too.

"How're you feeling?" Dean asks, looking Cas over quickly. There's more healthy color to his skin, and the lines spider-webbing from the corners of his eyes have faded a little. A little of the tension in his chest eases. He tells himself it's because it means he won't have to carry Cas all the way up the mountain, fights down that warm twitch of his soul.

Cas tilts his head. "I feel... better," he says finally with a slow nod.

Dean doesn't get the chance to ask just how good 'better' was because Cas is walking away quickly, further up the rocky incline, and Dean scrambles to follow after him. "So where're we going now?" he asks once he catches up, falling in stride.

"To the next terrace," is Cas's reply, said over his shoulder without slowing down.

Okaaaaaaaaaay. "And what exactly are we gonna find there?" Dean squints ahead. It looks like the path is leveling out, which means they're going be at the top of the 'terrace', or whatever.

Cas comes to a sudden halt, and Dean scrambles to a stop to keep from running into the angel's back. His eyes flick around quickly, just in case there's some danger that made Cas stop, but he doesn't find anything.

But then Cas starts speaking.

"With each terrace, we will atone for our sins—we will repent, be washed clean, made fit to ascend to heaven." He glances at Dean over his shoulder. "Our goal is not heaven, but the path is the same." And then he's hesitant, biting at his lower lip, head bowing. Its that little hesitation that puts Dean on edge, raises the hairs on the back of his neck like he's being watched.

"This will not be easy, Dean. We will be forced to face our numerous demons before we can continue onward; we will be broken, and then made whole again."

Dean swallows. That definitely doesn't sound like a walk in the freaking park. Then again, they're in Purgatory—he'd be stupid to expect anything to be easy. "So what, we go on a hike, beat up the skeletons in our closets, and we can go home?" False courage comes easily to him, always has, and it helps relax the tension in Cas's shoulders.

Cas huffs. Dean can't tell if it was supposed to be a laugh or not. "An understatement, but yes."

"Then what're we waiting for?" Dean passes Cas and continues up the slope at a brisk pace. He can see where the land flattens out, and crests the hill quickly. "Lets get this shit over with."

But then Cas is calling his name, desperate, fearful, and Dean looks over his shoulder to see what's causing the angel distress as he takes another step.

Boot connects with what feels like marble, and the world disappears in white.

* * *

Dean's eyes snap open.

The first thing he notices is that he's in a suit. He knows he's in a suit because it itches, its tight across his shoulders and he can feel a collar hugging his neck, snug against his chin.

The second thing he notices is that he's in a courtroom.

Dean's sitting at the defendants table, though with a cursory glance to his side he realizes he has no defense attorney. It's just him, alone. There's an itch between his shoulder blades, the insatiable itch that comes from being watched, and he turns his head.

The back of the courtroom is filled to the brim with familiar faces. Some faces he can put names to—Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Garth, Adam, Andy, Ash, Bela, Gordon, Olivia, Pamela, Missouri, Rachel, Gabriel, Jessica, Sam, Sarah, Jesse, Lisa, Balthazar, Jody—while some he can't—faces he's seen on autopsy tables, in pools of their own blood in their homes, dying with the demon blade thrust into their chest. But he knows they're all people who have been affected by him some way; he can't say how he knows, but he does.

"Your honor, we call Mr. Dean Winchester to the stand."

God, he knows that voice.

Dean whips his head around so fast he almost gets whiplash, stares at the man standing before him, one hand behind his back as he gestures Dean towards the stand. Seeing his face after so long... Dean's throat tightens, his vision going watery as he blinks away tears.

John Winchester's lips twitch into a smirk as he repeats the gesture. "The stand, Dean," he murmurs, and Dean staggers to his feet, his legs carrying him mechanically. In his head he's trying to talk to his dad, trying to ask why he's there, why _everyone else _is there too, what's going on, why he's on trial. But his body won't respond, and he's left to ride as a passenger in his own meatsuit as his body places his hand on a bible, takes the oath, then takes the stand, settling into the leather chair. He knows from watching enough court TV with Sam that this isn't how this is supposed to work; there's supposed to be a jury of his peers, a judge, plea bargains and investigations. But he knows this isn't an ordinary trial, and it's not like he can do anything to protest anyway. He can't even talk with his own damn mouth.

His father paces back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. "Please state your name for the court."

_You know damn well what my name is. _Dean's mouth moves of its own accord. "Dean Winchester."

"And do you know why you're here today, Dean?"

_No._ "Yes."

John nods and stops pacing in front of Dean, leaning his hands on the wooden partition between them. "Enlighten us."

And then words begin to flow from his mouth, endlessly, like a waterfall.

"I'm proud. I think I'm better than you because I think I raised Sam better than you ever could. I think I'm better than you because I think I handled mom's death better than you did.

"I think I'm good enough to handle things on my own even when proven otherwise. I think I'm too good for emotions, that I'm too good for 'chick flick' moments. I think the world revolves around me, that my problems are bigger than everyone elses, that my friends and family should drop everything to help me, no matter how small and menial the task."

_No I don't!_ Dean screams in his head. _This is bullshit! _But somewhere in the back of his mind he knows his denial rings false, knows that the words his body spoke were truths he's clung to despite all evidence of the contrary.

His dad nods, like he already knew the answer. He begins to pace again, taking the time to stare out at the multitudes sitting in the courtroom. "And how many have suffered or died for your pride?"

Dean's yelling and railing in his mind falls silent. How many...?

But his body seems to know the answer. "Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. The people I couldn't save because I was too proud to ask for help, the people I didn't save because I assumed I knew all the answers. Friends who have been hurt or died because I refused to see reason, and all the innocent souls who have suffered because I was too proud to admit I didn't know what I was doing.

"It's my fault that the Apocalypse started, my fault that Sammy had to go to Hell, my fault he couldn't kick his demon blood addiction, my fault Sam and Cas went crazy, my fault you died, my fault Jo and Ellen died, my fault Cas fell, my fault he tried to become God, my fault the Leviathans are free. But I'm too proud to admit it."

Dean has no rebuttal for this, because every damn word's true.

He's almost always been too proud to admit when something's his fault, those few times he did had to be dragged out of him, and every time he regretted it because he was too damn proud to be emotional and honest and open. All he can do is stare out of eyes he can't control at the sea of familiar faces and pray they all know how sorry he is, how much he wishes he could go back and say the right thing, make the right decision, ask for help when he needed it, not be too proud to rely on others.

Emotions boil within him, bubbling and seething, threatening to drag him under until he drowns. His blood roars in his ears, heart trying to beat its way out of his ribcage. All the repressed thoughts and regrets of the past come surging forth to swallow him up and its all he can do to stay afloat.

John's voice, quiet and solemn, floats across Dean's mind, barely dragging him to the present, if this could even be called that.

"You have been charged with the sin of Pride. How do you plea?"

And then Dean's back in control of his body, as if he has been the whole time, and God he can't help the tears that roll down his cheeks, the quiver to his chin, the lump in his throat that threatens to suffocate him because it's just too big to swallow down, too big to push away. It's all he can do to keep from crumbling under the weight of his pride; his shoulders hunch, spine bows out as his curls in on himself.

"How do you plea?"

A sob escapes his lips and he covers his mouth with a hand, squeezes his eyes shut to get away from all those eyes staring at him, waiting for his reply.

Dean works his jaw, tries to get the word out, but he just can't.

"How. Do. You. Plea."

"_Guilty_," he rasps, voice catching as he finally caves in, body shuddering with sobs. His head falls into his hands and he just cries and cries and cries, until there's nothing left in him, until his eyes are swollen and red and his throat is hoarse.

A hand cups Dean's chin, lifts his head up, wipes away the trails his tears left on his skin. His eyes widen as he leans into the familiar hands, letting gentle fingers caress his skin as he gapes. "M-mom?"

Oh God its her, blond hair in waves that frames her face, eyes warm with love. She smiles and it's like the entire world lights up, like her happiness makes the world spin on its axis. Dean sits up, stares up at her with eyes as wide as any child's. He tries to speak, but she shushes him with a finger to his lips, her eyes crinkling as her smile widens .

She presses a kiss to his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, chin, and cheeks. "My baby boy," she murmurs as she leans back, "It's time to let go of your pride, of the burden it weighs you down with. We forgive you, but it's time for you to forgive yourself."

Forgive himself? Dean lets his eyes flutter closed as his mom wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. Yeah, he can probably do that. Or at least give it a valiant effort. And if not, he can at least try to be better.

Yeah, that's something he can definitely do.

When he opens his eyes again, he's kneeling on white marble, hands braced on his thighs, head bowed. It takes a few minutes for his brain to catch up, but it does, and he blinks slowly. Dean lifts his head carefully—his neck is stiff and sore, like he's been sitting in the same position for hours—and takes in his surroundings.

The entire terrace is floored with white marble, the space maybe twenty feet in diameter. There's some sort of mosaic carved into the marble—it's what Dean had been staring at before he woke up, he realizes. Like the carvings were what dragged him into wherever it was he'd gone to.

The marble forms a wall around the mountain, covering the rock face with scarily life-like sculptures. Dean can't spot where the path to the next terrace is, but he can see souls bent double, faces pressed into the floor as if bearing a great weight. Was that what he looked like while he was in the Twilight Zone? He snorts quietly and rises to his feet slowly.

Something... slides off his shoulders, down his back, like he's casting off a heavy blanket. His entire body feels lighter.

No, his _soul_ feels lighter.

_Huh_.

Dean shakes the feeling, files it away to look at later, and turns in a circle, looking for Cas. It only takes him a few seconds to find him (who else would be standing in a trench coat, staring up at the sky like it holds all the answers?) and he walks up, careful not to trip over any prostrate souls or step on any fingers or heads.

"Cas?" he whispers. There's something about the silence here that he doesn't want to break, so instead of speaking louder he reaches out to touch the angel's shoulder. But Cas doesn't react, just stares up at the sky, lips parted, eyes wide. Dean would say it looks like he's about to cry, but angels don't cry, at least not in his (extremely) limited experience.

Dean's just about to shake the angel to get his attention, but Cas is taking a deep breath, letting out a body-rattling sigh—God, but Cas sighs way too much—and turning to face him. His blue eyes are out of focus, like he's staring at something hundreds of miles away. "Dude, Cas," he whispers again, waving a hand in front of the angel's face until his eyes zero in on him. "Are you alright?" Dean hisses, stepping close so his voice doesn't carry. It's not likely he can disturb the souls scattered across the ground around them, but he isn't going to press his luck.

Cas doesn't give a response, not at first. He just stares at Dean like he's surprised he's there, like he expects him to disappear at any second. He opens his mouth once, twice, like he's trying to speak but can't get the words out. "I..." he begins, brows furrowing as his gaze drops to the ground.

The sentence goes unfinished; Cas pivots on his foot and begins to stride away, leaving Dean to catch up. Once he does he falls into step, doesn't bother to ask where they're going. The only real answer is up, up to the next terrace, closer to their way home.

Dean doesn't know why he's trusting Cas now, why he's not questioning where they're going and why. Maybe it's because he can admit to himself that he _doesn't_ know what to do in this situation; he can admit that he'll follow wherever Cas leads, even if it's off the edge of the mountain back into the depths of hell.

That should scare the piss out of him, but it doesn't.

It isn't long before Cas stops, standing at the base of a gentle incline, still swathed in pristine marble. Dean tries to follow the curving path with his eyes but only gets a few feet before he feels that familiar burning in his retinas, feels pressure on his eyelids, trying to make his eyes close. There's a feeling of static in the air, a buzz like he's standing near exposed electrical wires—the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end, and the static tingle makes his skin itch.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess there's another angel up there," Dean says, his voice still pitched low, scratching his arm idly. He studiously keeps his eyes on Cas, avoiding looking any further up the path to save his sight for as long as he can.

There's a hitch in Cas's shoulders as he breathes, a rigidity to his stance that radiates distress. Dean's hand reaches out on instinct, taking the angel's wrist in his grasp and pulling until Cas turns to face him. Its obvious that something's wrong by the way Cas's face is pinched, eyes rimmed red like he's been crying despite the lack of dried tears on his face.

Dean lets his hand slide from Cas's wrist to his hand, giving it a squeeze. "Dude, if we need to stop, just say so."

But Cas is shaking his head, rubbing at his face with his free hand in a gesture that's so God damn _human_ it makes Dean's heart twist. He looks at Dean then, looks right into his eyes and grimaces. "We don't have time to stop often," he says, shoulders slumping. "I just underestimated how difficult our... my ascent would be." A chuckle rips its way from his throat, hollow and brittle. It takes everything Dean has not to wrap the angel in a hug; he settles for giving his hand another squeeze before letting go.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't wish to burden you, Dean."

"You can stow that 'burden' crap—I'm tellin' you that if you want to talk, I'm here to listen." Dean can't help but feel uncomfortable, what with this being a Class-A chick flick moment, but he's sure as hell not going to leave this unsaid. "I'm here, Cas, and I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

The smile that blooms on Cas's face is beatific, even through the fine layer of sweat still clinging to his skin, even through the pain of what this level of Purgatory has put him through. It's impossible not to smile back, and Dean basks in the quiet moment before jerking his head towards their path onward. "Let's get this over with," he says, and Cas nods, taking the lead with long strides.

It only takes a few steps for the buzzing in Dean's ears to amplify, for the skin-crawling static to go from uncomfortable to downright painful. Another step and his eyes are sliding shut of their own accord, the world glowing in reds and pinks as holy light filters through the skin of his eyelids.

Another step and his head feels like it's about to explode, like his skull is caught in a vice grip, squeezing like it's trying to push his temples together. A pained whine rips its way from his throat and he stumbles forward under the white hot pressure of angelic presence. By some miracle his feet stay under him, though he thinks he can register an arm wrapping around his waist, offering silent support.

His feet shuffle farther up the path, up the steady incline, Cas guiding him along with murmurs; "A little to the left, we're close now, don't open your eyes, don't look back."

Dean's thankful the ground is still smooth stone instead of jagged rock—he's so over scraping his arms and legs and shoulders against rocky outcroppings—because he can't pick up his feet, can't make his thighs lift his legs enough. All he can do is shuffle forward, one step at a time, head bowed against the endless onslaught of heavenly grace radiating from whatever angel is up ahead.

The buzzing in the air reaches a fever pitch, making his very bones feel like they're trying to rattle their way out of his skin. His eardrums pop as the noise begins to sound like a high frequency whine, like stereo feedback. Dean clamps his hands over his ears, feels his skin slick with blood.

All at once strength leaves his limbs and he folds to the ground, landing on his knees, spine curling, his head pressing against his lower thighs. There's a presence next to him, pressure on the small of his back and he keens as the touch sends fire racing through his veins, threatening to boil him alive.

It takes a few seconds for Dean to realize Cas is talking to whatever angel is guarding the gate, a few seconds for him to realize he can make out every word.

"Let not your pride weigh you down any longer; let it not drag your souls into the fires of Hell. Rejoice! For you are forgiven!"

Dean slips a lackluster "Woohoo" through his grit teeth, but the angel either doesn't hear him or chooses to ignore it. He wishes there was a fast-forward button, something to skip all the holy pomp and circumstance and get them on the other side of the gate, because his body isn't going to take much more heavenly abuse before it freaking _explodes_.

And then he can feel those eyes on him and he whimpers, digs his fingernails into his skull, trying to hide from the weight of that gaze. There's a whisper of feathers, the tickle of something brushing against the crown of his head, and suddenly the pressure subsides a little, just enough for him to think coherently. The itching and crawling of his skin lessens to a degree, and while the burning presence of grace still hurts his eyes even with them closed, it isn't to the point that he needs to worry about his eyes being burned out of his skull.

He hears Cas gasp beside him and something tells him the angel did the same thing to him, conferred some sort of blessing or angel mojo or whatever it was.

"Rejoice, my Brother, for you have been washed clean of your prideful sins."

There's the unmistakable sound of a sob beside Dean, but there's no time for him to react to it, to offer comfort, because he's being compelled to stand, rising to his feet robotically. He thinks he can hear something like iron scraping against rock, the groan and squeal of rusting hinges, and _something_ pushes him forward, one step, two, three, through something white hot, like molten lava, like the center of the sun, like a supernova.

Then he's on the other side.

The gate squeaks closed, latching with a resounding click.

_"Te Dominum."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Part: **2/?

**WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS NON-CON.**

**Notes:** So this took a while, just because we both get distracted easily. But chapter three is going to be mostly up to me, so hopefully I can knuckle down and get it done in the next three weeks? No promises-I'm gonna be busy with work and coaching and I'll be gone for a week in August for band camp, so yeah.

Again, reviews are loved. Nothing makes me happier than getting an e-mail alert about a review while I'm at work, so I have to sneak into the walk-in or hide in the bathroom and read it and feel all fuzzy and warm inside. ; u;

* * *

"Cas? Hey, Cas, you okay?" Dean's voice is cracking, gravel-rough and strained, and the angel is unresponsive. He's not dead—he's not even unconscious. But he's very, very still, and utterly silent, hunched on the ground and staring straight ahead. There's a tear across the shoulder of the tan trench coat, clear through the white fabric of the dress shirt, and a yellowy, knotted bruise forming on the pale skin beneath. Upon closer inspection, Dean notices the irregular angle at which the bone seems to bulge under the skin. But Dean knows it's not physical pain that's sent Cas into a state of shock. The angel's been through far worse than this; and it's not a comforting thought. "Dude, you gotta snap out of it. You can't just go catatonic like this on me."

Gingerly, Dean places his hands on the angel's undamaged shoulder and gives him a gentle shake. Still, Cas is silent, eyebrows knit together like he's on the verge of tears. Dean's heart is racing now. He bends to balance on the balls of his feet, peering into Castiel's face beseechingly. "Cas. Come on." His stomach flip-flops uneasily when he notices the angel's eyes turn pink around the edges, and he watches a tear track down the dirt-smudged cheek. Dean makes a move to catch it with his sleeve but decides against it at the last second, allowing his hand to fall awkwardly back into place on Cas's shoulder.

"Cas, please. Don't fall apart on me yet. We've got a long way to go, man." He gulps and runs a grubby hand through his hair. "I can't do this alone. I need you."

There's a moment in which Dean considers trying to slap Cas back to reality, but before he can think it through, the angel's eyes blink and his tongue emerges to wet his lips. The angel draws in a long exhale and then nods slightly. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, and his eyes meet Dean's, piercing and impossibly sad. Dean has to remind himself to respond.

"No—no, it's okay. Just—can you stand up? My knees are getting' tingly."

"Yes, of course."

The angel is standing crookedly, his injured shoulder clearly causing him more pain than he chooses to let on. "What happened there?" Dean asks, eying the wound with concern.

"I suppose the Gate might have started to close before I was entirely admitted."

"How am I not injured?" Dean demands, taking a step closer. The angel shrugs.

"You're the Righteous Man, Dean. I'm a fallen angel. That puts you at a higher moral caliber than me." His manner is as matter-of-fact and nonchalant as though he were reading a grocery list, but Dean picks up on the pain in his words. The angel is ashamed. Dean doesn't blame him—he's done a lot to be ashamed of.

Still, he can't deny that it hurts him to see Cas this beaten down, this deflated.

"Well, titles be damned, Cas. I'm no saint either," Dean says, conjuring as much conviction as he can—and it isn't difficult to do. "My record's as marked-up as yours."

The angel fixes him with a dubious stare. "Dean, you know that's not true."

Dean opens his mouth to protest and promptly falls silent. It probably won't help their situation if he's dishonest. Cas can see through him as easily as though Dean were made of glass.

"Listen, man, you messed up. Big time. But that's in the past now. You can't go back and fix that. It's done, it's over, you screwed up. Now all we can do is move forward and try to right whatever wrongs we can," Dean tells him firmly. _Purgatory is turning me into a damn motivational speaker_, he thinks, and resists the urge to roll his eyes.

The corners of Castiel's mouth tweak upward for just a moment; it's a nearly imperceptible quirk that Dean wouldn't have caught if he wasn't watching closely. "Thank you."

"Sure. Now, do you think we can work on the moving forward thing? This ain't exactly a pleasure cruise. That back there—that was not fun." It's a legendary understatement.

"Yes," the angel replies, and a hard expression takes over his features immediately. "Dean, you must remember to distance yourself from whatever they show you."

"What?"

"This place," Cas explains, gesturing with both arms, "is designed to break you. Its purpose is to hold a mirror to your faults and fears, to make you face yourself."

"So it's like therapy?" Dean jokes, and Castiel's face darkens.

"More like torture."

"Great. Awesome," Dean mutters, dragging a hand back through his hair. He shakes the dust from his fingers with a grimace. "Well, we survived the first level, so that's one down and—six to go, right?"

Cas nods.

"Alright, Dante, let's see what you got." Dean takes a deep breath and starts the climb toward the terrace, with Cas limping a few steps behind.

"Dude, you hear that?" Dean hisses over his shoulder. There's a soft, persistent tittering in his ears, almost more akin to distant rushing waters than whispering voices. The angel squints into the distance and then his eyes blow wide open. "What? What is it?"

"They're waiting."

"Who?"

"They don't have a name. If they do, I don't know it."

"Okay, well, it's not the first time I've fought something without knowing what to call it."

"Dean, this isn't a fight," Cas tells him, stepping forward to stand shoulder-to-injured-shoulder with Dean. "We have no hope of contending with these creatures."

"So, what then?" Dean shoots back, almost angrily.

"We listen to what they have to say, and we do whatever they tell us to do."

Dean bristles at this idea. It sounds way too much like Hell—like submitting to defeat. But the angel's face is resolute, and Dean finally nods in acceptance. "Okay. Simon says."

Confusion knits Castiel's brows together and Dean rolls his eyes. Taking Cas by the elbow, he adds, "Let's get it over with, shall we?"

As they draw closer to the terrace, Dean studies the scene to take stock of what they're up against. However, there isn't much to see: a long, white marble platform, bare and spotless as new snow, a sort of false light raining down upon it. It isn't bright and painful as before—not by a long shot. But Dean feels distinctly exposed, vulnerable, as though the light is cutting through his skin, past his veins and muscle and bone, clear down to his soul. He feels like a bacterium under a microscope. _A mirror to your faults,_ echo Castiel's words in Dean's head. He bites his lip and shakes back the uneasy shiver creeping along his spine. The whispering in his ears grows louder, more insistent, vibrating the air and rattling Dean's teeth. Dean is reminded suddenly of the one parade he attended as a young kid, pressed against his father's leg while the floats and marching bands thundered by. He'd been both awed and frightened by the hum of the percussion and bass through his little body. It had felt like a second heartbeat.

But these voices are not human—they aren't even of Earth. They are something new entirely, and Dean has yet to determine what or who was responsible for them. But his grip on Castiel's arm keeps him steady, even as the angel sways a little beside him. It is unclear whether Cas is affected more by the pain in his shoulder or perhaps the chanting voices, but either way, Dean is glad he's managed to stay upright and conscious for the time being.

But the very next second, the angel is suddenly ripped away, his arm torn out of Dean's fingers by some unseen gust of wind or pair of arms. Dean hears a startled, agonized shriek, and looks around frantically for Cas, but he sees nothing but the marble terrace stretching on for what seems like miles. His voice is coarse when he shouts into the nothingness. "CAS! _CAS_!"

There is no answer besides the maddening whispers. Dean clutches at his hair with both hands, frantic in his sudden aloneness. "Cas," he murmurs blankly. But he doesn't have much time to flounder in the moment because immediately he feels sharp little fingers digging at him, dragging his limbs up the steps of the terrace. He shouts in fear and bewilderment, flailing at the naked air, kicking like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Dean can't find any traction—there's nothing there, and logically, he shouldn't be floating up the stairs and sliding across the floor, his toes dragging the marble. But the disembodied hands seem to be working in conjunction with the disembodied voices because the whispers have pitched to a greater volume now, stinging in his ears. He lets out a pained grunt and gives one last violent swing of his legs before he's deposited in front of a dusty sort of statue. _Not a statue_, Dean corrects himself, even through the haze in his head; _a bust_. He's on his knees, staring up into a smooth, featureless face. He can only assume it's a face, by the general oval shape of it, and his eyes travel down the bust to see that it does have artfully-sculpted marble arms. He's in the process of studying the long white fingers when the sculpture moves, and the arms break apart from the sides, rising to cup Dean's face. He's utterly stunned, and every cry dies in his throat, his breathing erratic as the frigid marble fingertips slide down along his cheekbones, brush past his ears and finally settle around his jaw line. The statue's thumbs knick lightly across his Adam's apple and then outward to press into the hollows at the corners of his jaw. Dean's face is frozen in a state of overwhelming panic and he watches in morbid fascination as the blank face of the bust splits, the marble cracking horizontally like the jaws of a Leviathan. Dean's heart pounds so furiously that he begins to feel dizzy and sick, and the last thing he sees before the world turns black is a giant hole, like a lipless mouth crowing open wide and round, burgeoning from the crack in the statue's face.

_ The first thing Dean notices is his car._

_ The Impala is hurtling down an empty, dusty generic highway that could really be anywhere in the country. The sun is setting, and the pinkish-golden light reflects off the hood of the car, the windshield glaring white. The second thing Dean takes note of is that the person in the driver's seat is a pale, dark-haired woman. One arm is slung over the side of the open window, and there's a red-lipped smirk on her pretty face. Meg, Dean realizes with a jolt of distaste._

_ The very next horrific realization hits Dean like a cannonball to the chest: Cas is riding shotgun, half-turned in the seat, talking to Sam around the side of the headrest. Sam is sprawled comfortably in the backseat, grinning and laughing. It's such an unfamiliar __sight that it takes Dean a moment to even accept that it's his brother. That kind of carefree levity hasn't been a part of Sam's demeanor for years—maybe a decade. Suddenly, Dean is able to hone in on their conversation as easily as though he were in the car himself._

"_Good job, gang," Sam laughs. Cas is grinning back at him, eyes sparkling._

"_That went much better than I expected," the angel adds._

"_Are you kidding? We made that rougarou our bitch!" Meg exclaims. "So, I think we deserve a little fun—don't we, boys?" Her dark eyes flick upward to wink at Sam in the rearview mirror._

"_Last I checked we were running pretty low on cash, Meg," Sam replies. Cas nods in agreement, disappointment apparent on his face. Meg refuses to be put out._

"_Well, good thing we only need one hotel room then, huh?" she purrs back. She glances over at Cas and the angel blushes._

"_Yes. I suppose our celebration needn't cost anything."_

_ Meg tilts her head back and laughs, dark curls shaking around her face. "Love is free, Clarence. Ain't that right, Sammy?"_

_ It dawns on Dean that he is listening to his brother, his angel, and a demon plan a tryst—and it occurs to him that this is probably not the first incident of such a thing. Dean focuses every fiber of his incorporeal being on the way Cas watches Meg's face. She's turned facing the road, her expression drawn and intense. Castiel's eyes, dark and blue and fond, follow the swoop of Meg's nose, the swell of her lips, the curl of her eyelashes in the dimming evening light. He watches her the way he used to watch Dean, with unflinching admiration and an undercurrent of awe. Dean feels a twinge of possessive heat rise up within him, wherever he is, when Meg reaches across the seat to take the angel's hand. Dean sees their fingers lace together, hers long and pale and cruel, his ruddy pink at the tips. Sam rests his head against the window and begins to nod off, a faint, contented smile on his face._

_ Then, the edges of Dean's vision start to cloud and crumble, the highway disappearing. Was that it? Dean wonders hopefully. But then he's startled by the sudden blast of sunlight that temporarily blinds him. When his eyes adjust, he's able to make out a tall figure leaning against the brick wall of a neat little house. Dean takes in the leather jacket, the faded, threadbare jeans, and tired eyes—it's John Winchester, and he's not alone. He sees the lanky shape of a younger guy, maybe in his twenties, and realizes promptly that it's Adam Milligan. Dean's heart may be elsewhere, somewhere beating in the darkness, but he's still able to feel when it skips a beat and sinks._

_ The scenery fleshes out before his eyes, slowly at first, then suddenly all is bright and vivid—so real Dean can smell asphalt and beer. There's a blue cooler on the porch of the house behind John and Adam, and a set of wind chimes ring musically in the breeze. A lawnmower sits at the corner of the house, next to a coiled-up water hose, and the Impala is parked in the driveway. Dean recoils at the sight of white fuzzy dice dangling from the rear view. Dean wants to groan in disgust but he can't seem to locate the proper vocal organs to produce such a sound. _What kind of douchebaggery is this_? he ponders furiously. But then he hears John speaking, and at the sound of his father's voice, low and ragged and whiskey-tempered, Dean is overwhelmed with emotion._

"_Don't drive too fast, son."_

_ Adam quirks one eyebrow. "You mean like Dean did every time he got behind the wheel?"_

_ John chuckles. "Yeah. Don't do that. Don't be like Dean. You're not in a hurry, Adam. Nothing's hunting you. I made sure of that."_

"_I still can't believe you're gonna let me drive her after what he did."_

_ John smiles and looks up at the sky. "Yeah, well, I know I can trust you, kid." He meets Adam's gaze, shrugs, and pulls the keys out of his pocket to hand them over. Adam takes them hesitantly, fixating on the way the metal glints in the sunlight, clearly turning something over and around in his head. Then he clears his throat._

"_What makes me any different?" he asks quietly. The defiant, close-lipped expression on his face is so reminiscent of Sam that it shakes Dean to his core. "Don't get me wrong, Dad. I'm glad you're back, but I gotta know why."_

_ John looks incredibly sad, regret coloring the shadows beneath his eyes. He sighs heavily. "When I look at Dean, you know what I see? The past. I see his mother's eyes. I see—all that pain, all those mistakes I made. He's a lost cause, and maybe it's my fault." His voice trails off and he shifts his weight for a few seconds before continuing. "Adam, you're my second chance. I can do it right this time. I can be the father I never was, and you can be the son I've always wanted."_

_ Adam nods, fingering the keys to the Impala lovingly, reverently. Then he grins at John and says, "Well, I'll do my best."_

"_I know you will, son."_

_ There's a high-pitched whine and then the metallic echoing click of something like a stopwatch, and the suburban scenery disappears. Then comes the flickering warmth of a candle-lit room in some modest home. Dean's been here before, he thinks, but there's a noticeably different vibe to the air. There isn't much to see; there's a Bible perched atop a pillow on a neatly-made bed, and a framed print of The Last Supper hanging above it, reflected in the mirror across the room._

_ A woman stands nervously in the doorway of the closet, one of her hands smoothing her skirt and the other twisting a lock of dark hair. She's looking down at something, or someone, on the floor of the closet. "God truly works in mysterious ways, Emmanuel," she says. Dean wracks his brain and turns up the name Daphne. "It's impossible to know what the Lord has planned for us."_

"_I assume this was not part of your plan?" growls that familiar gravelly voice. Castiel sits cross-legged on the floor of the closet, gazing up at Daphne. He's wearing a ratty T-shirt and gym shorts, probably scavenged from the local Goodwill store. Dean can smell some kind of floral soap, and by the way Cas's hair is flattened against his forehead, it seems he's just gotten out of a shower. It's then that Dean notices the damp spots on Daphne's jeans; he realizes with a sinking feeling that she must have helped him bathe, helped him dress._

_ Daphne smiles and pushes the hair back behind her ear. "This is far greater than anything I could have planned for." She sinks to her knees in front of Cas and takes his hands, pausing to watch her own fingertips drag fondly across his knuckles. "God brought you to me, Emmanuel. For whatever reason I was chosen, I am grateful."_

"_What will we do now?" Castiel asks, and Daphne slowly raises her eyes, looking up at him through her eyelashes shyly. Dean wishes he could block this out, cover his eyes, shut the door on this unnerving scene. Daphne lifts her hand hesitantly then brushes the dampened locks from Castiel's forehead. He looks entranced, perplexed by this show of affection, clearly uncertain as to what it can possibly mean. Daphne leans in to plant a faint, __questioning kiss on his lips. There's a tense moment during which Dean half-expects Cas to bat her face away or recoil in fear. But then his lips part and he cups Daphne's face with both hands. When they break apart, they're both breathing heavily, eyes wide with lust. Cas mutters gruffly, "Thank you—for rescuing me. You are all that I have. I can't—I can never repay you for what you've done."_

_ Daphne swallows noticeably and Dean can tell she's nervous. But she whispers, "I think you can," and begins to unbutton her blouse. Cas watches curiously for a moment, then offers tentative fingers to trace the line of her collarbone, the dip between her breasts, the simple white lace seam of her white bra. "O-only if you want to," Daphne adds, her voice shaky. Cas meets her eyes and gives a quick little reassuring nod._

"_I want to."_

_ Before Dean can sufficiently lasso the wild, gnawing protest in his gut, the vision disappears._

_ The voice is soft, drawing Dean out of the dark; it's earnest, and there's an uneven edge to it, like a kid going through puberty. Light begins to flood Dean's head and as the voice keeps talking, Dean realizes with a jolt that it's Ben. It's his laughter ringing across the perfectly-manicured lawn. It's first just waves of green and blue, but soon the image begins to focus and refocus until the picture is unnervingly sharp. Dean catches every lift of the breeze, every twitch of the branches on the little sapling in the middle of the yard. Ben is hunched over a small garden plot, carefully planting seeds. Dean can see the dirt under Ben's fingernails, in his hair. The boy is a little taller and broader in the shoulders than Dean remembers. His baby-pudge seems to have evaporated; his face looks thinner and more defined. He looks like Dean._

_ Ben is humming quietly and a little off-key, but Dean can still easily identify it as a Led Zeppelin song: Houses of the Holy. There's a man kneeling next to Ben, grinning and nodding at whatever Ben is saying in between verses. The man is dressed simply in a flannel shirt and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to reveal heavily-muscled arms. He leans back to grab a little shovel from a wheelbarrow behind them, then taps Ben on the shoulder and begins to demonstrate how to use it. Ben pays rapt attention to the man's words, muttering, "Okay" and "Got it". Then the man ruffles the boy's dark hair and stands up to fetch a watering can from the porch. He brings it back and sets it down in the soil next to Ben's hands. Ben smiles broadly and wipes his dirty palms on the front of his shirt. He looks up at the man and says, "Thanks, Dad."_

_ Then the green and blue seem to blur together, like a drop of water on a child's painting. Dean searches frantically for Ben's face in the confusion, desperate for another second of his smile or pitch of his voice. Out of the writhing kaleidoscope comes a new voice—a new face. Suddenly the colors die, turn grey, and Dean is staring straight into the smoldering eyes and pointed nose of his brother. Sam is facing him, standing in what looks to be a relatively well-furnished living room Dean doesn't recognize. There's no one else around, and when Dean tries to call out to Sam, reach out and touch him, nothing happens. There's nothing here of Dean; he's helpless. But when Sam speaks, it's obvious he's not talking to anyone but Dean._

"_So, how does it feel?" Sam begins, his voice low._

_ Dean strains to reply, but to no avail. _How does what feel_? he wonders._

"_To be first-born but second-best? All you've ever done is chase after me, Dean. Do you know how annoying that gets? How pathetic? You spew a lot of crap about 'family first', but I know the truth. You can say it's because I'm your little brother and you love me, but I don't believe you for a minute. You want me around because I'm the only part of you worth a damn. Without me, you're nothing. Remember all those years as a kid when your only responsibility was looking after me? Come on! Without Sammy, there's no need for Dean to exist."_

_ A knot of sick fury begins its slow climb._

"_Face it. You're just jealous because I've always been better than you; stronger, bigger, smarter, more valuable. I'm a way better hunter and you know what else? I'm a way better son. I mean, really. Mom died for me, Dean. Do you think she'd have done the same for you? Think about it. Even when Dad traded places with you and made that ridiculous deal with Azazel, he did it to protect me. He thought I needed you. You know, it's funny. You idolized Dad, but you're nothing like him. Yeah, he was pissed when I left for Stanford, but he let me go because he knew I deserved better. He wanted more for me. I had a chance. I could've done it, too, if you hadn't pulled me back down into the pits. All your selfless martyr bullshit—that's just an act, Dean! We both know it._

_You just want so badly for someone, anyone, to care about you even a fraction as much as the universe cares about me. I saved the world, Dean! I fought the Devil and won. I'm a hero. What did you do? You let Michael take our little brother as a vessel. The saddest thing is—he was a better fit, anyway. You were so easily replaced. That's the way it was always meant to be: Adam and Sam, the Winchester heroes. You're not necessary for our family portrait, are you? Someday, when we're all in Heaven, the best we can hope for is that you'll still be in Purgatory, with the rest of God's mistakes._

_As for me: I'm glad you're gone. I can finally live my life without my worthless older brother shadowing my every step. Out here, in the real world, I've met someone. I'm gonna live the apple pie life you never deserved. You see, I don't need you to be happy; not like you need me. It's gonna be so refreshing, living life without all that dead weight. Don't be jealous, Dean. It's not a good look for you."_

_ White light and plaintive ringing assault Dean's senses once more and he hopes the trials are over, at last. But when his vision levels and he takes in the dimly-lit, musty garage surrounding him, he knows the end has not come yet. He doesn't recognize this scene from any place he's visited thus far, but judging from the sleek red Ferrari parked nearby, he assumes it's not the same building Sam was in. There's a faint smell of cologne mingling with the usual asphalt-and-motor-oil odor of a garage, and Dean tries to hone in on any moving shapes in the darkness. Finally, Dean hears a low sort of chuckle and soft footsteps. He knows the name before the face appears: Crowley._

"_You want in on my little get-rich-quick scheme, do you?" the dark-eyed demon growls. A bedraggled and miserable-looking Castiel emerges from the shadows, trench coat hanging askew from his shoulders. He nods slowly, eyes locked on the dusty floor. Crowley smirks. "Well, Cas, you know I like you. But I can't just conspire openly with every pretty pair of legs that wanders into my garage."_

_ Cas lifts his gaze at this, dread flickering across his features. Crowley spreads his arms wide in a gesture of faux compassion. "What can I say? I'm a classically-trained businessman and a firm believer in the merits of a binding contract."_

"_I don't have a soul to pawn, Crowley. What do you want?" Cas ventures quietly. The angel is a difficult read, but Dean knows him well enough to spot the worry lines branching across his forehead; Cas is scared, and so is Dean. Crowley, however, looks positively giddy._

"_Well, let's see. Usually when I take a soul I seal it with a kiss. But since your side of the deal is—ah, lacking, in that particular element—I'm afraid a kiss may not be quite enough to convince me of your commitment to this arrangement."_

"_Again, I ask: what do you want from me?" Cas presses, his voice unsteady even as he painstakingly enunciates each word. Crowley flashes him a smug grin and begins to unbutton his black coat. Every fiber of Dean's being screams with the desire to flee or fight or tear everything down, but his body has left him. Still, he can feel his soul protesting somewhere in the quiet, as Castiel's eyes widen with alarm and his mouth falls open._

"_Castiel, if this endeavor is going to be successful, I need to be sure you're willing to give yourself over to me completely. Mind, body, and—well, not soul." He shrugs out of his jacket and loosens his tie. "You must prove to me that your loyalties and your, ah, capacities are mine entirely, to use and command as I see fit."_

_ Dean feels nauseous, even without a proper stomach. He wishes he could shut his eyes, cover his ears, yell to block out the simpering rasp of Crowley's voice, Cas's wounded little whimper as he reluctantly sheds his trench coat. But the scene unfolds with agonizing clarity, a miniature home video searing into the forefront of Dean's brain._

"_I-I don't understand," Cas murmurs, unconvincing as he backs away defensively. Crowley merely tilts his head, smiles devilishly, and advances toward the cornered angel with a kind of swaggering aggression._

"_Now, Cassy. You may not be the most worldly of boys, but you and I both know you weren't exactly born yesterday. Let me remind you how this works: I'm going to take what I want, and you're going to give it to me without a fuss."_

_ In horror, Dean watches as the King of Hell pins Cas to the wall of the garage, one palm flattened against the angel's neck, the other slithering down to jerk the belt from its slot. He's leaning forward, almost on his toes, to growl obscenities into Castiel's ear. He mutters terrible things about how far Cas has fallen, about how he is nothing but a broken vessel to bend and fuck. "Where's your Grace, Castiel? Where's your green-eyed savior? Do you really think he'll want you after I mark you as mine? Do you think Daddy will let you come home once I'm done with you? Your ass is mine, Feathers, in every way your little mind can fathom."_

_ Crowley doesn't kiss the angel, doesn't caress him; there's no sensuality to be found in the way he flips Cas around, the angel's face shoved into the concrete wall. The worst isn't Crowley's cruel words or violent hands on Castiel's neck—it isn't even the way the demon shoves into him without preamble, clearly reveling in the blood and shrieks of pain he elicits from him. No, the worst is when Cas manages to turn his head just a fraction of an inch so that Dean can easily see his eyes clenching shut, his lips parting to softly mutter, "Yours. Yours. Only yours now. No one else."_

_ Crowley whispers roughly, "That's right, Cassy. You are mine. Only mine. Say it."_

"_I am yours."_

"_In every way, Angel."_

"_In every way."_

_ And when the demon comes, his fingernails drag across the angel's hips. Cas screams at the pain of it, and Dean is filled with a blinding, dizzying hatred he doesn't think he's ever felt before. "You're marked now, Cas. Now everyone will know how filthy you are, how ruined. No one else will want you, Angel. And no one else shall have you but me."_

The very next instant, Dean finds himself curled into a limp, sobbing heap at the base of the marble bust. His head throbs and spins, his limbs are numb, and before he can fully regain his vision, he turns and retches violently down the steps of the terrace.

Convulsing with vertigo and an ache that was probably more metaphysical than clinical, Dean spits the last of the bile, drags his sticky chin across the marble, and rolls onto his back. He feels drained, paralyzed, like every muscle in his body has atrophied to nothing. Swirling miles or hours or leagues above him are sickly grey-green wisps, like bathwater-soaked rags, and Dean knows instinctively that they are souls. He can feel their hunger from here; he can sense their confusion, their helplessness. These were people once, he thinks darkly, and they lost their way. He wonders what they saw, what the angels showed them to drive them mad like this; spinning and drowning and whirring away pieces of humanity and sanity until nothing remains but that which cannot be broken.

"They are consumed with envy," intones a low voice. Dean sits up so quickly he has to fight down another surge of vomit. Castiel is standing beside him, staring up at the pulsing mass of tortured souls. From this angle, Dean doesn't have a very comprehensive view, but it seems that the angel is unharmed.

"What the hell, Cas?" Dean croaks, his throat dry and raw. "Where did you go?"

"Nowhere."

"No," Dean argues, getting to his feet with a stumble. "No. Something pulled you away from me. Where did they take you? What did you see?"

"I don't remember," Cas murmurs, and blue eyes meet Dean's, genuine alarm evident in the cornflower depths.

"You don't-? Cas, what did they do to you?" Dean pushes, and shuffles over to inspect the angel's shoulder. It looks about the same as it did before, bruised and bloody and probably infected. Dean blanches at the sight of it, still battling the nausea incurred by the Ghost of Envies Past. "They gave me these vision—things. I don't know. Just some god-awful crap. I mean, I know it's not real. But this terrace shit; they're not fuckin' around."

Cas nods slowly, measuring Dean's words. "Yes. I thought they might do that."

"And you? Didn't you get a visit from Old Saint Prick?"

Cas is silent, shifting uncomfortably.

"What? You're an angel so you get a free pass?" Dean cries.

"No, Dean. I was tried as well. I saw things—and I would rather not discuss them."

Dean looks simultaneously distressed and relieved. "Okay, fine. Works for me. We can talk about our feelings when we're back topside. Let's just focus on getting out of here."

"Of course. Follow me."

The angel descends the steps of the terrace and Dean follows, pausing on the last step to glance back at the marble bust. He nearly trips over his own shoe upon noticing that the formerly faceless statue now has a distinctly familiar set of features; it is the chiseled likeness of what Dean sees in the mirror. Dean stands transfixed, until there's a tug on his sleeve and Cas pulls him down. The moment Dean's feet leave the step, the terrace dematerializes. All the innumerable square miles are simply gone, leaving a misty sort of marshland in its stead.

"What the fuck?" Dean breathes, but before he can process this strange development, Castiel is wandering off, into the fog. Dean rushes to catch up to him, feeling his eyes and nose start to burn. There's an acrid stench Dean has enough miserable life experience to be able to identify as burning hair and bones. He squints around, but Dean can hardly see a foot beyond his own face, the air is so densely clouded. "What is this?" he chokes out, his voice muffled.

Castiel's response cuts through the fog like a spray of hot water. "We're nearing the border."

"The border?" Dean repeats, blinking back aggravated tears.

"We're approaching the line between this terrace and the next."

The smoke is so thick now that Dean cannot see anything but grey. "C-Cas? Hey! Cas, where are you?" he panics, flailing for something to grasp hold of. Finally his fingers catch hold of something soft and pliant. Once Dean realizes he's clutching at the angel's hair he immediately lowers his hands to take the collar of the trench coat instead.

"I'm here, Dean."

"Yeah I can see—okay, I can _feel_ that."

"We're crossing."

"You can see? What does it look like? What's happening?"

"Be quiet. Hold tight."

There's a sudden rush of cool air across Dean's forehead, rippling back through his hair, and he feels lighter, emptier. "Absolution," mutters the angel at his throat.

Dean's head is tingling, his limbs no longer obeying his wishes, and when he starts to collapse, he finds that he is buoyant, held aloft by something wiry and mobile and constant; the smoke is in his lungs, he can feel it in his veins, an itch he cannot hope to dig out. When at last the fog clears, Dean's eyes are still shut. "You made it," mumbles Cas, and Dean's head turns to nose into the angel's chest, frangible as a sleeping child.

* * *

Everything is calm and quiet in their small pocket of clear air, the sun's warmth chasing away the chill that clings to Dean's skin from the last terrace. One of Castiel's hands rests on the back of his neck, the other on his shoulder; the touch grounds him, keeps his mind from delving back into the visions of his own personal envy-fueled hell.

They're on the ground again—something that looks like it's going to be a common occurrence each time they pass through a gate—all of Dean's weight resting against Castiel's chest, his skin prickling like his limbs fell asleep and are just now waking up after years of numbness. There's still a faint stench of burning hair and bone in his nostrils, like a fine layer of ash coating his skin, but Dean ignores it in favor of flexing his fingers and toes, grimacing as painful shocks shoot up his limbs.

"Going through the gates is a bitch," Dean mutters. His breath tastes like ash too, dry and bitter; he coughs, works his tongue and jaw to get a bit of moisture back in his mouth.

Castiel's hand twitches fingers ticking the fine hairs at his nape of his neck. "I believe we are having a more difficult time passing from one terrace to the next than most would." Dean can feel Castiel's low timbre in his chest, rumbling against his ear. The angel's words are contemplative, as if Castiel is just now piecing something together—or just now deciding to clue Dean in. He should be angry at the idea of Cas keeping even more secrets from him, but he just can't find the energy to. Dean just wants to bask in the sunlight like a house cat, soaking in the warmth; he wants to rest against his angel and not give a damn about the world, about purgatory, about his sins, about _anything_. But Castiel's speaking again, drawing Dean away from his thoughts, back to their situation and the fact that giving up just isn't in the cards.

Its these little moments of peace that truly test his resolve.

"Only souls are meant to travel through purgatory," Castiel says slowly. He shifts and hitches his injured shoulder, biting back a grunt that Dean can still hear in his ribcage. "Our physical bodies are a hindrance, here."

"Because this shit isn't hard enough," Dean replies with a scowl, shifting his legs experimentally. The burning tingle isn't as strong as it was; he flexes his thighs, pulls his legs up so his feet rest flat on the ground, knees bent. "I think I can stand," he murmurs, leaning forward a little. Castiel wraps his uninjured arm around Dean's waist, lifting him effortlessly.

Dean rocks his weight forward, letting it settle over his feet slowly. Once he finds his balance he takes a careful step away from Castiel, testing his equilibrium. He sways but shoos Castiel's hand away, taking another step, then another, forcing himself to recover faster.

And then everything changes.

The sunlight seems brighter, harsher. Dean shades his eyes against the glare, the white stone beneath them blinding like fresh snow on a bright winter day. "What the hell?" Its no longer comfortably warm, but _hot_, the light burning him. He hisses, rubs at his exposed skin. His mind thinks back to the cool fog behind them, a place to hide from the angry sun. Something in the fog behind them _pulls_ at him.

Maybe they could go back, wait until the sun went down to move on. Sure, it smelled awful, but Dean's smelled worse and could get used to it if it meant he wouldn't have to worry about catching on fire.

Suddenly Castiel's hand is on the small of his back, pushing insistently, guiding him up a set of stairs he didn't notice before. "We need to keep moving," he says. Dean turns his head to look at the angel over his shoulder and gets a snapped, "Keep your eyes forward," in response.

But the light grows stronger the further they go; Dean swears he's gonna combust, swears that at any second his skin is going to melt and slide from his muscles and bones. All he wants to do is turn and go back to the cool mist, hide from the ball of fire in the sky. _I need to go back, I gotta go back, I have to go back_ repeats in his head like a mantra as he begins to struggle against Castiel's guidance, twisting around to retreat. But Castiel's always in his way, keeping his head forward, shoving and cajoling him into moving towards the next terrace, up step after agonizing step.

Castiel's talking to him, he realizes, a constant flow of words. "Dean, we must go forward. We cannot go back. Please, Dean. Please. To go back is to be lost. I will not let you go back."

But its too hot for him to respond, too hot for him to care about words or thoughts. The whole of Dean is the instinct to get out of the sunlight, to get somewhere safe, and a year of distrust and anger and sorrow tells him Castiel _isn't leading him there._ He whimpers, fights against the arms circling him, binding his arms to his sides. Dean strikes out blindly, flailing against the superhuman strength in the arms wrapped around him, almost pitching the both of them backwards. The only thing that keeps them both from tumbling back down the stairs is Castiel's iron grip.

"Please, Dean. Trust me. We have to keep going." Castiel's voice cracks. "Trust me, Dean."

And that's the crux of their problems, isn't it?

But right now, with hellfire scorching and charring his skin, Dean makes the decision to trust, to believe that Cas isn't leading him astray. Because, yeah, sure Cas lied to him in the past, betrayed his trust in a way that cut to the bone, but this is a different situation, a different time, and everything Castiel's said thus far has been honest. Besides, who else can he trust here?

So he stops fighting and throws himself up the stairs towards the next terrace. He can hear Castiel scramble up the stairs behind him, just a few steps behind him, voice urging him further, faster. He ignores the way his nerves _scream_, the way his skin pulls and contracts and just runs.

It's only a dozen steps until they top the stairs, and the second Dean's foot touches the last step, as soon as his body is on the next terrace, he gasps, body shuddering.

It's like someone's dunked him in ice water. Blessed cold runs up his legs, his torso, his head, dispelling the burning, soothing his inflamed skin. A relieved sob rips from his throat as he sinks to his knees, head tilted back, eyes closed. Dean doesn't move for a long time, even as he hears Castiel come up beside him. He just kneels there and enjoys not feeling like he's standing within inches of the sun's core.

"What the fuck _was that_?" Dean rasps, cracking open an eye and peering at Castiel over his shoulder.

"Not what, Dean," Castiel corrects softly, eyes taking in Dean's body like he's double checking that his skin really didn't crisp like a sucking pig over an open fire, "but _who_."

He doesn't elaborate, doesn't supply a name, and Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. For fuck's sake. "Well?" he prods, rising to his feet, dusting his knees off. Its only once he's standing that he realizes just how close the angel is; Dean's all up in Castiel's personal space, his shoulder just shy of pressing into Castiel's chest. Dean swallows the lump that forms in his throat, resists the urge to lean further into the angel's space. "Who was it?" he elaborates, when Castiel still doesn't supply an answer, wincing as his voice cracks.

Its like the sound of his voice snaps Castiel out of a trance; he blinks slowly at Dean, staring as he licks his lips unconsciously. It doesn't do anything to help relieve his perpetually chapped lips, Dean notices, and his tongue pokes out to lick at his own. Castiel's intense blue eyes follow the motion before he takes a step back, his gaze darting away.

"It was Arelim."

Dean had wondered why there wasn't a feathery guardian to greet them when they reached the boundary between the two terraces, but really? An angel masquerading as a huge ball of fire? That's new. Dean says so, and Castiel frowns at him.  
"Arelim has always been partial to fire, but it is more than that. It was a warning, Dean, and a test." Castiel sighs and touches at his wounded shoulder, gently prodding the broken skin. "We are not allowed to rest for long periods of time between terraces, only long enough to-" he hisses and stops playing with his shoulder "-regain our bearings."

Dean stares at Castiel's shoulder, worry pooling in his chest. Usually wounds like that would be gone in a matter of seconds, patched up with angel mojo like they'd never existed. The fact that they'd passed through an entire level of purgatory without Castiel's shoulder healing... Dean realizes Castiel's waiting for some sort of reaction to what he said; he nods and shrugs. "Alright, so no vacations between terraces." The words 'and a test' prod at his mind and he adds, "What was the test?"

"Arelim was testing your resolve. Would you, when forced to decide, fight through the pain and move forward into the unknown, or give up and go back to the familiar?" Castiel turns at pin's Dean with a level stare, his face devoid of emotion and expression. "Would you trust, or would you doubt?"

Heat rises in Dean's cheeks, shame crashing into him like a tsunami. After a few seconds—seconds that seem to last eternity—he grimaces and rubs at the back of his neck. Dean wants to tell Cas 'hey, thanks for making sure I didn't make a huge mistake back there,' 'thank God you didn't let me go back, or else I'd smell like a funeral pyre for _weeks_,' but he can't be flippant, can't bravado his way through this one.

Because, really? Hadn't Cas told him they had to keep moving forward, to never look back? And what had he tried to do? Pretty much everything he shouldn't have because even now he can't trust Castiel one hundred percent, can't take everything he says at face value, and it's _stupid_ and _dangerous_ but he's still having trouble.

Someone once said that trust was like a vase, easily shattered and not easily repaired.

Turns out need and desperation make for a shitty superglue.

Some of his inner turmoil must've shown on his face, because Castiel's in his personal bubble again, reaching out to take his hand. "I will get us out of here, Dean," he says, soothing. He gives Dean's hand a squeeze before letting go, and Dean definitely doesn't miss the way Castiel's hand fits with his like a long lost puzzle piece, the way his skin tingles and his cheeks warm with something other than embarrassment and shame. But even through that he catches it, the word that helps placate his ever-present worries and fears about getting out of purgatory, the word that Castiel says with absolutely no hesitation.

'Us'.

The corner of Castiel's lip quirks towards the beginnings of a smile, and Dean answers it with one of his own.

The moment passes and Dean clears his throat—he's had enough feelings for now, thank you very much—shifting his weight and casting his gaze across the open white marble before them, taking time to get a look at the new terrace.

It doesn't look like much at all, really. Just what seems like a never ending expanse of of emptiness spreading out in all directions, disappearing over the horizon. Only the staircase leading to the next level mars the landscape, a small sliver of gray on the other side of the terrace. The air is still, the sky clear of clouds. But something's moving on the horizon, ghosting over the ground, shimmering in the sun. It slides ever closer, and Dean resists the urge to take a step back. He shoots a quick glance at Castiel; the angel's eyes are watching the slow progression as well, his mouth set in a firm line.

"And so it begins," Castiel says after a moment's pause, the resignation in the four words making it clear to Dean that the next terrace is starting up, ready to throw all of their sins and transgressions in their face. Dean squares his shoulders and scowls. No point in putting off the inevitable. So, against instinct, he takes a step forward, then another. He doesn't need to look to know Castiel's right behind him, ready to keep him pushing forward if his puny human resolve starts to wane. The unquestioning support is enough to get his feet really moving, and it doesn't take long for him to get going at a brisk pace.

It also doesn't take long for him to realize the stuff rolling towards them is fog—not like the dark, tainted smog that blinded and choked them before, but clean puffs of white, just like the fog that forms after a warm summer's night begins to cool in the early morning hours. Now, that's not to say it doesn't fill Dean with wariness, because it sure as hell does. He knows it's stupid to think the fog's harmless, but it's much easier to walk towards it when it doesn't look like death and destruction.

After a few feet their paths intersect, the fog curling around their legs, swirling as their bodies disrupt its slow, almost methodical progress. The fog brings with it the smell of ozone, and Dean can taste it on his tongue, bitter and electric. His eyes flutter closed as he takes in a deep breath, the smell reminding him of times past, when it heralded Castiel's appearance and remained long enough to make Dean truly miss his presence. It reminds him of a time when things were so much _simpler_, when, even with the Apocalypse hanging over their heads like a guillotine, there were two constants in his life: Sam and Cas.

God, he misses that so much.

Castiel's hand is wrapping around his elbow, stopping him. Dean opens his eyes and turns to look at the angel, to ask what they're stopping for, but the look on Castiel's face stops him. It's full of awe and wonder and even a little apprehension. "Dude, what is it?" But Castiel doesn't offer a verbal response, instead pointing with his free hand over Dean's shoulder.

When he turns to look at whatever it is in front of them that's rendered Castiel speechless, Dean gasps, mouth hanging slack.

All Dean can think of is those crazy ass dust storms that desert cities have to deal with, those huge walls of pale brown that rise up out of nowhere, blocking out the sun to completely engulf anything and everything in its path. That's whats coming at them now, only its a wall of roiling fog, a wall so high he can't properly see its top.

Fear takes hold, his heart pounding in his chest, pulse racing in his ears. His fight-or-flight instinct is trying to kick in, but there's nothing for him to fight and no way in hell he can run off, so he's left standing there, mouth gaping like an idiot, his brain providing the ever-helpful litany of _shitshitshitshitshitshit__._

"Cas?" Dean whispers.

"Yes, Dean?"

"Uh, what exactly are we gonna do?"

"What do you mean?"

Dean scowls. "We just gonna stand here and let _whatever that is_ take us?"

He can practically feel Castiel's confused but he doesn't turn to look at his face, his eyes glued to the quickly approaching wall; its only a hundred yards away now, covering the remaining distance with terrifying speed.

"That is what we're supposed to do, so yes."

Dean snorts. "Well isn't that just peachy."

Castiel must hear the frustration in his voice because he works quickly to sooth it, his hand sliding from Dean's arm downward until his fingers curl around Dean's palm. Its enough to get Dean to turn his head, to break away from staring at the inevitable, and he meets Castiel's gaze.

"Turning back isn't an option, fighting isn't an option, running away isn't an option," Castiel lists carefully, slowly, as if to make sure Dean catches his every word. "We have only one choice in this, Dean, and that's whether or not we will once again let ourselves be separated, to fight our demons alone."

Dean realizes Castiel's hand is shaking, his grip vice-tight. It dawns on him just how scared Cas is, how he doesn't want to find out what this level of purgatory has in store for him, and the only person who can have his back in this moment is him.

And, no matter what's happened between them or what will happen in the future, Dean knows that, when push comes to shove, he'll always have Castiel's back.

The wall of fog blocks out the sun.

With a small smile, Dean squeezes Castiel's hand. "We won't get separated this time."

Castiel's eyes are wide, filled with fear yet shining with so much trust and faith that Dean has to swallow back a lump in his throat.

"I promise."

And then the fog finally hits them, blasting them with cool dampness, swathing their world in an opaque whiteness that glows with the diffused light of the sun. It surrounds them completely, disorienting.

Looking back, Dean wonders why he made a promise he didn't really have the power to keep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part: **3/?

**Warnings:** None

**Note:** Sorry this took so long. This was a really difficult chapter for me to plan out, and even harder for me to write, especially since this bit is 100% me—Sarah's got no section in this chapter/on this terrace. Plus, with life getting in the way, I never really had enough time to sit down and just bang one out like I've been able to with the first two chapters. But here's what I have right now, and I know it's short; I always plan to have at least 8k words per chapter but this time it just didn't happen.

The next one should come sooner now that I've gotten past this huge road block. And if not, I'm sorry for any waiting you may have to do.

Enjoy. :)

* * *

The fog surrounding them is thick, opaque and seemingly never ending, though its not thick enough to obscure Castiel, to hide his features. Dean has no problem seeing the tension in the angel's shoulders, the tightness at the corners of his eyes, the perpetual frown drawing his eyebrows down and his lips into a small knot of pink. Dean knows he looks the same, hunched shoulders and anxious eyes—how could he not? Despite the current calm of the terrace, there's an undercurrent of danger; his instincts _sing_ with the urge to flee, to escape.

Of course, that isn't an option. Mostly because Dean knows that going back is beyond stupid, and just a little bit because he has no idea which direction back even is. The second they're surrounded he loses all bearings, all sense of direction thrown to the wind. Castiel isn't hindered though, taking a step to their left and giving Dean's hand a small tug in that direction. "This way, Dean," he says, and Dean follows obediently like the lost little duckling he really is, falling in step besides Castiel.

Actually moving forward seems to lessen the twist in Dean's gut that tells him to _get the hell out of Dodge,_ and he's thankful—he'd seen the disappointment in Castiel's eyes clear as day the last time he hadn't ignored his base instincts, and didn't think he could handle disappointing him again so soon.

So they walk hand in hand, footsteps muffled by the fog, lending strength to each other through their joined palms and laced fingers. Castiel's touch is once again an anchor in this otherworldly place, an anchor that Dean can't possibly begin to express how thankful he is to have; he honestly can't imagine getting through purgatory in one piece without Castiel's help. But that makes him wonder—if he had been sent here by normal means, sent as a soul that had to ascend if he wanted any hope of making it into heaven, could he have made it? Or would he have been trapped in purgatory for years, decades, millennia? Everyone keeps telling him he was the Righteous One, but he still can't wrap him mind around the how and the why of it. How could he be considered righteous, with all that he's done, all that he'll surely do in the future? Hell, even with the Apocalypse, it had been _Sam_ who ended it, who got Lucifer and Michael in the cage—he'd been the righteous one in that moment, the one with the strength and willpower to fight the Devil himself and win. How could Dean even hope to compare to that?

Dean blinks, his musings fading away; Castiel's giving his hand a gentle squeeze, drawing him out of his mind and back to their surroundings. He looks around quickly but only finds fog, fog, and more fog. "What is it?"

Castiel shushes him, looking up towards the obscured sky, brows furrowed in concentration. "Do you hear that?" he whispers, eyes as wide as freakin' saucers as his gaze darts to and fro, like he's following something.

Something tells Dean this isn't just another trip to crazy town, so he purses his lips and listens. The seconds tick by in complete silence, save for the sounds of their breathing, and Dean wonders if maybe Cas is just slipping a little, hearing things that aren't there. Maybe it's the stress, maybe it's just a culmination of the last year, and purgatory is the straw that broke the camel's back.

"Dude, I don't hear anything," he starts, but then it's _there_. Something off in the distance is ringing, sliding through the air like a gentle caress. It's a hum that tickles the ear drums, making the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rise.

Dean holds his breath, strains, tries to catch more of the sound, to figure out what it is. But Castiel snags his attention as he exhales loudly, and Dean looks over at the angel. He looks... not depressed, but definitely upset. Maybe 'dismayed' is the word he's looking for, but whatever it is, Dean doesn't like it. It looks like someone just told him they'd kicked his puppy a week ago but he'd already sort of had an idea it happened. Or something.

The sound is getting louder, resolving into music, into chords and harmonies that resonate with power, that make Dean's bones feel like they're vibrating. Soon he can pick out vowels, a few consonants.

_Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis._

Dean frowns. What, so this terrace has its own personal soundtrack? He isn't sure how he feels about that, or what it means for him and Cas. But what he does know is that Cas looks like he's about to burst into tears, his eyes red-rimmed and watery, and while he will probably never know the whys and how of purgatory, he can at least find out why Castiel looks like his world is crumbling around him. "Cas, what's wrong?" he whispers as more words flow through the fog.

_Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem._

"I should be hearing this in Enochian," Castiel murmurs before clenching his jaw—also clenching his hand around Dean's in a painful grip—and closing his eyes, head bowing.

Castiel is one step closer to being a fallen angel.

And Dean has nothing to say to that. What can he say? That's something that has permanent residence on the 'shit I have no control over because I'm just a puny human' list, especially since neither of them are in any position to do any fixing. But man, the look on Castiel's face just stabs him in the heart, and when the angel gives a little sniffle it's like someone's twisting the knife about twenty times, giving an extra twist for good measure.

Castiel is seconds away from cracking, Dean knows it. He can see it, can practically count down the seconds like it's a planned demolition, but he can't think of what to do to stop it, and god _damn it _he feels so helpless and weak.

It's no wonder Castiel went to Crowley for help with his war against Raphael instead of him.

But Castiel's imminent breakdown never comes. No, instead Castiel takes a deep breath and recollects himself, standing tall with his shoulders pulled back. And when he opens his eyes they're clear, all sign of his emotional distress hidden. The guy just pulls himself together like it's nothing, and Dean can't help but feel a little awe.

_Miserere nobis, miserere nobis._

The music gets louder. It sounds like a chorus.

"How the hell do you do that?" he blurts out.

"Do what, Dean?" Shit, even his _voice_ is calm and collected.

"How do you just... pull yourself back together like that?"

Cas finally looks at him with those damn eyes of his, and Dean doesn't want to wax poetic about a dude's eyes—purple prose is absolutely unnecessary and stupid—but he can't help it. His eyes are just so freakishly blue, so bright and expressive, even if the angel doesn't fully understand the emotions he's expressing. He'd seen those eyes when Jimmy was in control, and it's clear as day that even if it's the same body, Castiel's are completely different from his vessel's.

Castiel looks at him and stares long and hard, like he's not sure how to answer Dean's question. Dean's about to give it up, about to throw a 'whatever, man, don't worry about it' out there and just move on, but Castiel finally opens his mouth to answer.

And, goddamn, the one sentence that slips from his lips packs enough of a punch to leave Dean breathless.

"I do it because nobody cares that I'm broken."

Castiel tries to pull away, to let go of Dean's hand, but he's having none of that. He tightens his grip, pulling Castiel back towards him. The fact that Castiel _let _him pull him back is clue enough that he's done the right thing, and he rolls with it, turning the angel around so they're face to face. With his free hand he grabs the back of Castiel's neck, stepping forward until their foreheads press together, their breath mixing in the inches between their mouths.

Dean stares into Castiel's eyes, tries to make him hear and feel the truth in his words. "Damn it Cas, I _do_ care that you're broken, but I can't put you back together down here." He wants Castiel to believe him, he _needs_ Castiel to believe him, despite all the things he's said before, despite how callous he's been in the past. Because it's true, damn it. He wants to fix Cas, wants him to be the badass angel that helped thwart the Apocalypse, the guy who panics when he's alone with a woman, the guy who's honest to a fault and so oblivious to humanity it's hilarious.

"I am not Humpty Dumpty, Dean," Castiel says with a frown and Dean can't hold back the laugh that bubbles up and slips from his lips, can't fight the grin that practically splits his face in two. Even now, Castiel doesn't fail to surprise him.

He wants to say, 'Don't ever change,' but he's already said that before and it's a little late for that. So Dean just laughs and steps back, giving Castiel a pat on the shoulder.

"C'mon, man, we better get going."

And so they resume their walk across the terrace, the hauntingly beautiful music continuing on.

_Dona nobis pacem, dona nobis pacem._

* * *

Dean wishes he could see the sun, if only to pretend he has some idea of how long they've been walking. It feels like they've been walking for hours, if the pain in his feet and knees is any indication, but his mind tells him it's only been a few minutes. The way this place messes with his sense of time is annoying—what's more annoying is he has no idea how much time has passed back home, how long Sammy's been running around without him. Dean has a pretty clear idea of what Sam's doing right now, considering how he reacted when Dean had been dragged to hell via Air Hellhound. His little brother's probably ten different kinds of drunk, raging against the world and looking for a way to break into purgatory to get him and Cas out.

And he knows Sam won't forget Castiel, won't forget to rage and grieve for the falling angel. He's always had a big heart, always had an easier time forgiving. He'd be loathe to actually say the words out loud, but Dean's always envied Sam's ability to just... let bygones be bygones.

"Something's happening."

That's all Castiel has to say to get Dean's full attention.

Dean, ever eloquent, can only get out a "What? Where?" before Castiel's shushing him, pressing the index finger of his free hand against his lips with a scowl. Dean pushes back the completely mature urge to bite Cas's finger—because really, this is a time to be serious and biting is just one step away from sucking and the last thing Purgatory needs is overly obvious homosexual undertones—and waits for the angel to finish figuring out what's happening. At least he assumes that's what Castiel's doing. He's standing there, eyes wide and unfocussed, and Dean's cursory glances don't catch anything that's off about the fog around them. It's still there, it's still annoying, and there's still a choir of angels or souls or whatever singing for background noise. Same old, same old.

Except it really isn't, Dean realizes as he squints into the white nothingness before them. Because just a few minutes ago, he could see a foot farther ahead of them than he can now.

He can't help the small "Cas" that slips from his mouth and studiously ignores the way his lips slide against Castiel's smooth finger.

"I know, Dean." A muscle under Castiel's eye twitches minutely. Clearly, despite the front he's putting up, the angel's no more ready for this terrace to start it's shitstorm than Dean is. Castiel lowers his finger from Dean's mouth and sighs.

Moments pass in silence as their field of vision shrinks.

"Any idea what we're up against?" Dean knows the question's a stupid one the second he voices it. Of course he doesn't. Castiel had no idea what was gonna happen to them for the last two merry-go-rounds of emotional turmoil, why would he know now?

Castiel shakes his head. "I only have a general idea of what may happen to us." He pauses with a frown. "A_ very_ general idea."

And, well, Dean knew that answer was coming, but he still doesn't like it. "Well, what terrace are we on this time?" The first one was obviously Pride—his vision quest thing had spelled it out quite nicely for him—and the second one was Envy—again, relatively easy to decipher. It'd be nice to go into the next mindfuck with some idea of what he was getting himself into instead of finding out at the end.

Castiel's brows draw together in that 'processing request, please wait' way of his before he answers. "Wrath."

Well, shit.

Dean must've said that last bit out loud because Castiel replies with a dry, "Indeed."

The fog's pressing against them now, thick and damp and just a little terrifying because the fog could be hiding just about anything, and all Dean can do is hope that whatever happens to them doesn't break them. Well, break them even more than life has already. He's still a jagged and cracked mess and Castiel's still a few teacups away from a full china set despite the way their current situation is forcing them to man up.

All he can hope is that they don't get separated this time. Whatever happens will be easier to deal with if Castiel's by his side.

It's as if having some shred of hope is what jump starts the terraces machinations. The fog wraps around his waist and shoulders and _tugs_, trying to pull him away from Castiel; it's doing the same thing to him, pulling the angel in the opposite direction. Dean yelps and tightens his hold on Castiel's hand, swinging his other hand around to grab his wrist.

"Shitshitshitshit," he snarls, holding on with everything he has. Castiel grips his hand just as tight, if not tighter; he can feel the bones in his hand shift and rub against each other but he doesn't care about the pain because he's damn well not going to let go. He made a promise that they'd get through this place together, that he wasn't gonna let go, and Dean's not about to break that promise without a fight.

The malevolent forces of the terrace pull harder. The muscles in Dean's arm scream with protest, his shoulders straining, stretching. He looks at Castiel's face, sees the physical strain he's under, sees the tendrils of fog that paw at his body, tear at his trench coat. Then the fog gives a fierce tug and Dean cries out as his shoulders dislocate with a hollow pop. The whiteness wrapped around his chest tightens slowly, constricting, forcing the air from his lungs. He struggles to breathe in, feels his face going red with exertion.

"Dean, we have to let go!" Castiel says, his voice faint and echoing as if he's speaking from a far distance. He wiggles his hand in Dean's grasp and Dean bares his teeth at the angel, squeezes his hand even harder. There's spots dancing in his vision but he blinks them away, pulse beating erratically in his ears.

"Fuck that," he yells, or tries to—he can't get enough air into his lungs to make more than a garbled, wheezy noise, but Castiel seems to understand it by the way he's shaking his head, fighting harder to get out of Dean's grasp.

"I'll find you, Dean. But we must let Wrath do as it wants with us if we want to escape!" Dean's vision begins to tunnel, blacking out around the edges, but he can still see Cas clear as day. And, damn it all to hell and back, Castiel stares at him with his stupidly expressive eyes, all but begging Dean to listen to him.

But it doesn't matter whether or not Dean decides to listen to Cas, or if he decides to fight longer, because his puny human body finally throws in the towel. His chest aches from lack of oxygen and his head throbs as his brain starts to asphyxiate and then he slides smoothly into unconsciousness. Dean lasts just long enough to feel Castiel's hand slip from his, feel the open air between his palms, to hear Castiel say one last time, "I'll find you, Dean."

* * *

The first thing Dean thinks as he rises up from the dark abyss of unconsciousness is, "I'm so tired of blacking out." Because, really. How many times does this make it? One time too many, that's how many. He's gonna be beyond pissed if this is a recurring motif for every level. Maybe he'll make a pillow out of his shirt so he has something soft to lay his head on every time he gets knocked out.

His mind resurfaces quickly, but his body takes a bit of time to catch up. First its his fingers and toes, tingling in that I-sat-the-wrong-way-for-too-long-and-now-everything-is-needles-and-agony sort of way that makes him grimace. Then feeling works its way up his limbs to his torso and _Jesus Christ his back hurts_. Dean's getting too old for this shit, too old to be dragged around, thrown around, and dropped. Especially on marble. Sensation returns to the rest of his body in the same way—he's thankful his shoulders seem to have been popped back into place because there's nobody around to do it for him but his head is still pounding like a freakin' drum—and after a few moments he's able to open his eyes.

White, white, and more white. Wherever the fog dragged him, it's filled with even more fog. With a few muttered curses and shuffling, Dean gets himself up on his feet, head turning constantly just in case something else decides to come at him.

What he's not expecting is the voice behind him, the scarily familiar voice that he hears every time he talks.

"Looks like Sleeping Beauty's finally up."

Dean pivots quickly and stares.

Standing there before him, completely at his ease, is Dean Winchester. Rather, a Wrath-created Dean doppelganger, but still. Same face, same eyes, same hair, hell, they're even wearing the same clothes. Every freckle, scar, and mark is in the right place, and Dean bets Wrath-Dean even has two fillings in his bottom molars. The only difference really is the smile on Wrath-Dean's face. Never in his life has Dean smiled that way, that crooked, oily way that instantly puts him on edge, hackles raising.

His doppelganger shoves his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight. "What, no questions?" Dean purses his lips, swallowing the litany of questions that hang on the tip of his tongue. He knows anything he asks isn't going to be worth the wasted breath; any answers he'd get would either be lies or things he most definitely wouldn't wanna hear.

So instead he squares his shoulders and waits for his replica to get on with whatever he's gonna do.

It doesn't take long—apparently Wrath-Dean has just as much patience as the real Dean does, which is none at all.

"You see, Dean, you have a bit of an anger problem." The 'understatement of the century' doesn't need to be voiced, Dean and his duplicate both know it's there. "You've turned that anger on everyone you hold near and dear to your heart. Sam, Bobby, Dad, Cas, Lisa, Jo, Ellen..." Wrath-Dean ticks off each name on his fingers; Dean winces with each one. "You've unleashed your fury on every single one. But I bet you have no idea what that feels like, do you? What its like to face your special brand of wrath.

"Your kind of anger isn't hot, it doesn't burn. It's cold like a frigid bitch and just as callous."

Dean scowls and looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, yeah, I have anger management 'issues', old freakin' news."

"But do you know what _isn't_ old news?" his doppelganger asks right on top of him, eyes wide as he leans into Dean's personal space, the grin on his face creeping him out like crazy. "What your words _do to other people._ You have no idea, do you? The pain you cause is soul-deep, man."

Again, old news. Dean knows the stuff he says sometimes is... harsh, more often than not crossing every single line possible. But shit, he can't help it. Sometimes he's just gotta say what he feels, screw the consequences. It's like Wrath-Dean can hear his thoughts though because he's shaking his head, and the look of pity that flashes across his face makes the real Dean grit his teeth.

"You're a monster."

There's nothing in the universe that can prepare Dean for those words, for the way it hollows him out, scoops up his emotions and thoughts and dumps them all into a super massive black hole. His chest heaves as he gasps for breath, his eyes burning with tears that won't come. It's like the world has stopped spinning and all he wants to do is jump off into the empty abyss of space and never look back. It takes a few heart-wrenching moments for him to control himself to wonder just why those three words were affecting him so much.

Then it hits him like a bullet between the eyes.

Dean said those words to Sam, what seems like a lifetime ago.

Was this what Sam felt? This all-encompassing void that makes Dean wish he had a gun in his hand so he could put the barrel to his temple and just end it all?

"If you walk out that door, Sam, don't bother coming back."

And if that just isn't the one-two punch aimed to KO him in the first round. Dean's head spins, stomach roiling, and he dry heaves, spitting up bile as he doubles over, arms wrapped around his chest and middle in a vain attempt to protect himself from an attack.

But that's exactly what this is—an emotional attack, only its more like Emotional World War III, no holds barred.

"Bobby, you're not my dad." His doppelganger chucked. "Man, you remember his face when you said that? Freakin' _priceless._ Like you broke his heart."

There's a keening noise coming from somewhere, like an abused and beaten animal, like a funeral wail. It's coming from his mouth, he realizes, and he bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood in a futile attempt to hold it all in. God, but it hurts. It burns, sears him from the inside out.

Wrath-Dean steps close, right up to his bent head and looks down at him with contempt, a sneer curling his lips. "You're pathetic, you know that? A worthless sack of flesh masquerading as the Righteous Man. Unworthy of being saved. It's crazy just how much shit everyone's been through for you, how many people have had their lives ruined, how many people have _died_ because of you.

"Cas should have left you in hell."

It doesn't take a genius to realize that this is the part where Dean's anger and callousness is turned on him, but it's not doing much. Because, really, this is all stuff he's told himself time and time again, words that he often finds at the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels on a bad night—and most of the nights are bad, now. But no, this isn't doing much to make him feel bad; its not sadness and depression and emptiness that swells in his chest, pushes against his ribcage. It's anger. Fury. Wrath. It kills the roiling fire in his veins, turns it ice cold, leaving only a faint echo of the pain he's felt on this level thus far. His fingers curl, hands clenching into fists and he grits his teeth, lips pursing.

Dean knows this is a bad idea before he opens his mouth to speak, knows that this is the sort of shit that could keep him from finding Cas and moving on, but his lungs take in air, completely ignoring the 'abort mission' memo his brain's sending. His vocal chords tighten and his lips part and suddenly words are pouring from his mouth and he has no way to stop it.

"You know what? Fuck you right in the face, you dick. I did the best I could, I gave it my all. Sure, I made some mistakes and almost dropped the ball more times than I can count, but at the end of the day, I did my damn job. I helped stop the Apocalypse, I helped save billions of lives. I told Michael 'no' and put a wrench in Heaven's genocidal plans.

"I did everything I could to keep the world in one piece, and there's no human on Earth who could have done a better job or given more of themselves to the fight. And if you say there's someone out there who could have done it better, I'm calling bullshit. Because there _isn't_ anyone, else _they'd_ be the Righteous Man, _they'd_ be the one who broke in Hell and got their ass raised from Perdition.

"I did the best I could, and if that isn't good enough, then you can go screw yourself."

By the time Dean's tirade is over, he's standing up, toe-to-toe with the other Dean, right up in his personal space. And he isn't yelling, because that's just not the way his rage works. But once he finally stops talking, man, he can't think of anything else to say. So the silence between real and Wrath-Dean stretches on uncomfortably, faces scant inches apart as they stare into each others eyes. Dean's anger fades to worry, and he can't help but wonder what his little outburst is gonna cost him.

But then the faintest smile quirks the corners of Wrath-Dean's lips—and Dean knows it's a real smile, because he knows his own smiles, and this one actually reaches his doppelganger's eyes—and fades away quickly, like fog in the morning sun. The surrounding white fog fades with him and Dean's left standing alone on clean white marble, the sun a bright orb at high noon, warming his clammy skin and pushing away the chill in the air.

Well. That was unexpected. Clearly Dean did something right—that or the terrace has a sick sense of humor (or Gabriel runs it). He isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth too closely though, so he shakes off his suspicion and incredulity and turns in a slow circle, looking for Cas.

"Dean."

Dean heart tries to rip its way out of his chest and he jumps with a barely contained gasp; hewhirls around to find Castiel standing behind him, appearing out of nowhere. Apparently he has enough mojo left that he can squander it to scare the living shit out of Dean.

He opens his mouth to berate the angel for sneaking up on him like that, but closes it again slowly, taking a good look at Castiel. He looks absolutely livid, the muscles in his jaw straining as he grits his teeth and glares at the ground; his hands are curled into tight fists, and Dean wouldn't be surprised to find little crescent-shaped punctures in Castiel's palms. Whatever it was that the terrace did to him sure as hell incurred some fiery wrath.

And then Castiel looks up at meets Dean's eyes and, fuck, it's a small mercy that looks can't kill because if they could Dean would be ten sorts of dead. Castiel's glare holds the weight of holy Grace and it's all Dean can do to keep himself from shrinking under that gaze, from shying away from the righteous fury rolling off of Castiel in waves. Even so, even with how much Dean has to stiffen his spine just to stay upright, he refuses to be the one to look away first—his stubbornness level revs all the way up, because he'll be damned if he bends to Castiel's anger when he has no idea what prompted it or why (hell, _if_) he deserves it.

A muscle twitches under Castiel's eye and then he breaks the staring contest, turning on his heel and striding away. Dean releases the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and slumps, taking a moment to just breathe before walking after Castiel.

At least whatever it is that's got the angel's panties in a bunch isn't distracting him from the overall 'get the hell out of purgatory' goal because he's walking straight for the staircase leading to the next level.

If this were the Olympics, Castiel would win gold in power walking because he's setting a brisk pace that Dean struggles to keep up with without having to resort to jogging. And so Dean follows, staring at Castiel's back, at the stiffness in his spine and shoulders as his mind wanders.

He wants to say he's thinking about their situation and where it may lead, but Dean isn't thinking about purgatory, not really. He isn't wondering about the next level or what the angel guarding the stairs is gonna say to them.

No, all he can think about is finding out why Castiel's angry at him and what he can do to make things right.


End file.
